


Missed Opportunities

by WritingDump



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Between Anakin and Palpatine in Chapter 5, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Dialogue, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Non-Chronological, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-26 19:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 58,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15670185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingDump/pseuds/WritingDump
Summary: Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed in himself. Another missed opportunity. There’d be other chances to make up to Obi-Wan, of course. But how many was there left him? He wasn’t getting any younger with each passing day. How long until he went to sleep and never got up again?Qui-Gon pushed the thought out of his mind. No. There will be a next time. He was sure of it. All he needed to do was make sure that he didn’t botch it up again.What if being alive made one complacent? What if having more time made one arrogant, believing that there will always be a next time? What if Qui-Gon didn't die on Naboo, but the fated trio still don't get the fairy-tale ending they deserved?Chinese Translationby the amazingSuckbackintime\(•♡•\)





	1. Misunderstandings | Those Words Never Said

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】Missed Opportunities／错失良机](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17743694) by [Suckbackintime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suckbackintime/pseuds/Suckbackintime)



> A few things to take note of:
> 
>   1. Mind the tags 
>   2. Despite the summary, this really isn't meant to be some profound philosophical discussion 
>   3. This story isn't presented chronologically 
>   4. I also didn't write this story in the chronological order in which it is presented
> 

> 
> If the above don't tell you this story is going to be trash, I don't know what will.  
> Please leave your common sense and rationality behind while reading xD

Obi-Wan sat strapped safely into the passenger seat in the hold as the starship entered hyperspace, mulling over his most recent encounter with his former master. It had been awkward at best, disastrous at worst. He still remembered their heated argument a month ago when he’d returned to Coruscant after his first successful solo mission. During his mission, he’d taken the pains to read through and fill in all of the lengthy application forms required to be mission partners with Qui-Gon, only for the man to turn him down bluntly as soon as he’s suggested it.

“No.”

The single word had hurt him more than a lengthy refusal would have. It was as if Obi-Wan was worth nothing to the Jedi Master. Sure, he’d never for a second doubted that he was always second place in Qui-Gon’s heart. Second place to Xanatos, second place to Tahl, and second place to a random boy he’d just met and picked up from a desert planet, even. Still, it had hurt to know that he’d mattered so little to the other man that he didn’t even warrant expanding some energy to come up with an excuse with the faintest shadow of plausibility.

Rationally, Obi-Wan knew that he was being unreasonably petty — Anakin was a young boy who had just recently been taken away from his mother and the only life he’d ever known into a foreign place. He was too new to the Jedi Temple and the Jedi way of life. Until he settled in, he would need Qui-Gon to be by his side to be his pillar of support and guide him. Nevertheless, being able to reason out something in his brain was one thing, trying to convince his traitorous heart of the matter was another.

Hurt, he had allowed his tongue to get the better of him and flung out words barbed with thorns for the specific intent of hurting. He’d suggested they severed their training bond, and Qui-Gon had agreed just like that — no argument, no hesitation, a simple agreement spoken in a detached and passionless voice, as if the bond had meant nothing to him.

Then, because Obi-Wan was a fool who wouldn’t take a hint and learn to run away and save himself from further heartache, he’d asked the man if he would send him off on his next mission. Traditionally, a newly minted Knight’s master would be there to send their former padawan off on their first mission, but Qui-Gon hadn’t been around when he’d been sent off the first time. Better late than never, right? When Qui-Gon had agreed, he’d dared allowed himself to hope.

Except Qui-Gon never showed up.

Obi-Wan found out later that Anakin had gotten into trouble squabbling with another Initiate during class, and could only assume that the Jedi Master had chosen to go there and resolve the matter rather than attend to his former padawan’s childish needs — a completely fair decision, Obi-Wan grudgingly admitted, but it still hurt. He could have at least commed him to tell his former padawan that he wasn’t going to show up. Except it wasn’t in Qui-Gon’s nature to worry about such things. No, Qui-Gon was all about living in the here and now, leaving things of the past in the past and refusing to look ahead into the future. When he was preoccupied with solving a problem in the here and now, promises made yesterday didn’t matter anymore.

And so Obi-Wan had left on his own.

Two months of settling dispute between two political parties intent on accusing each other of embezzlement had doused the anger and dulled the hurt somewhat. By the time he’d returned to Coruscant, he had convinced himself that it was all a massive misunderstanding. When they’d met again in the corridor two days ago, Obi-Wan’s heart had soared. He wanted nothing more than to be reconciled with his former master. Then, Qui-Gon had spoken, his words cold and aloof, and Obi-Wan had responded in kind. After epically sabotaging his own attempts at a reconciliation, he’d all but fled from the scene, too much of a coward to face his master. And now, he was on his way to an Outer Rim planet on yet another mission.

There will be other chances, Obi-Wan reassured himself. Other opportunities.

 

* * *

 

Anakin felt Qui-Gon stiffen beside him and turned to find the man staring at something ahead of them. He knew before he turned to look what — no, who — he would be seeing. A ginger haired young man was walking towards them, head bowed low, mind preoccupied with other matters. His hair was slightly longer than when they last met and the braid that once adorned the back of his right ear was no more.

Immediately, he felt a surge of defensiveness rise within him. He wasn’t exactly sure what had transpired between the two Jedi, only that Obi-Wan disapproved of him and had ended up getting into a heated argument with Qui-Gon over the matter. After the Battle of Naboo, Obi-Wan had left for Coruscant on his own for his Knighting Ceremony while Qui-Gon recuperated from his injuries on Naboo. By the time he’d returned to Coruscant with Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan had evacuated his personal belongings from his shared quarters with Qui-Gon and had since left for his first solo mission.

Anakin had been secretly relieved to have avoided another confrontation with the young man who seemed intent on hating him for no apparent reason other than because Anakin was brought up from a less privileged background, but he could tell that Obi-Wan’s silent departure had hurt Qui-Gon in some deep, unspeakable way.

Now, as he watched, he saw Obi-Wan look up slowly, as if finally sensing the their presence. Anakin didn’t miss the way Obi-Wan’s eyes ducked left and right, as if seriously contemplating escaping down another route. Alas, they were on a straight corridor and the only way out was to turn around and walk in the direction where he came from. Trapped, the young man had no choice but to advance forward valiantly. Beside him, Qui-Gon drew a deep breath and closed the distance between them.

“Knight Kenobi, it’s been a while,” said Qui-Gon politely.

“Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan responded guardedly, core-bred accent clipped and polite, inclining his head in deference to the Jedi with the higher status. He turned to Anakin. “Padawan Skywalker.”

Anakin stared up at him in angry defiance until he felt Qui-Gon place a hand on his shoulder — a quiet reprimand. Reluctantly, he bowed. “Knight Kenobi,” he gritted out.

He hated this — the Jedi culture of showing obeisance to one’s senior. At least when he was on Tatooine, the only person he had needed to kowtow to was his owner. Here, he’d had to pay respect to anyone older than him. Given his age, that meant nearly everyone. He hadn’t minded Qui-Gon all that much — the man was like a father to him and even though Qui-Gon insisted that he was now free, when it came down to it, Qui-Gon had indeed won him over from Watto in a bet. In many ways, Qui-Gon was his master, fair and square. But Anakin seethed at having to have to bow to someone who hated him and he hated back in return.

Beside him, he felt Qui-Gon draw in a deep breath, preparing to speak.

“I’m afraid I have business elsewhere,” said Obi-Wan, interrupting the older Jedi before he could even start. “Please, excuse me. Good day to you.” With that, he turned and left.

Anakin could almost feel the flash of pain Qui-Gon felt as the ice dagger stabbed into his heart and twisted.

Anakin wanted to hate Obi-Wan for his cold callousness. How could he act that way towards Qui-Gon who was in all ways like a father to him? Anakin could never imagine giving Qui-Gon the cold shoulder the way he was doing now. Yet even as he thought that, he remembered how upset he’d been that one time when his mother had praised his best friend Kitster over him. A pang of guilt gripped his heart as he mulled over the fact that he was now the Kitster in the relationship between the two men.

He looked up when he felt a large, warm hand rest on his shoulder. Qui-Gon smiled at him. “Let’s get to the training salles before all of the stalls get taken up, shall we?”

Anakin beamed at the reminder that he’d be learning lightsaber katas that day.

“Wizard!”

 

* * *

 

Qui-Gon would never in a hundred years admit this out loud to Vokara Che, but he was beginning to seriously regret his decision to argue his way out of the Healing Halls.

Only three days before, the healers at Naboo had finally cleared him to be stable enough to be transferred back to Coruscant for treatment. He'd arrived the day before, feeling like he'd been plunged right back into the immediate aftermath of the battle with the Sith. This morning, however, he'd felt fit enough to talk and had promptly used it to talk his way out of the Healing Halls. He'd walked barely two blocks when he'd broken out in cold sweat and felt ready to collapse. Nevertheless, he'd been too stubborn to go back to the Healers and admit that they're right and he was wrong, so here he was, leaning against the transparisteel window, pretending to be looking at the scenery outside when in truth he was using the support to catch his breath.

He hadn't known this before, but apparently if one did not adhere to the traditional option of simply dying, losing a shit ton of blood could precipitate a bout of heart attack. Or, as in Qui-Gon's case, three episodes. He hadn't been completely sound of mind when the healers came to explain to him what had happened to him and could only understand snatches of what was being said. Something about infarction of cardiomyotomes — heart muscles dying? Was that the lay person term they'd provided — and remodelling and… Well, basically a jargon-filled speech about how his heart wasn't as strong as it used to be. Nobody told him tha having a weak heart translated into being so Force-damned tired all the time. By the time he'd finally emerged from the intensive care unit, brain still groggy and muddled from all the drugs they'd been pumping into him for the past three weeks, Obi-Wan had left for Coruscant, ostensibly to report to the Council about the Sith. He'd understood, of course. Such matters were too grave to be delayed. Besides, there was little the young man could have done for his old master. There was no reason for him to waste his time hovering around Qui-Gon's bedside when he had more pressing matters elsewhere. A cheerful whoop drew his attention to the fact that the boy he'd picked up from Tatooine had been left behind in the care of the Naboo royal guards, all of whom had elevated him to some sort of royal status following his contributions to destroying the Trade Federation control ship. It hadn't been hard to smile at the young boy when he recounted how he'd unwittingly discharged the two shots that destroyed the ship — a sure sign of his attunement to the will of the Force, if there ever was one — but much harder to maintain it when Anakin told him about Obi-Wan's Knighting. It was unworthy to be upset, of course. He'd meant every single word when he said that Obi-Wan was ready, and it didn't make sense to make him wait for Qui-Gon's uncertain recovery when the world was so in dire need of Jedi assistance. Already, Obi-Wan had been despatched on his first mission, some witness protection effort, if what Anakin was so excitedly babbling about was to be understood. Qui-Gon wasn't too sure. He'd been too exhausted to stay lucid for long.

The sound of footsteps approaching drew his attention back to the present. There was something familiar about that particular cadence, and he knew even before he turned around who it was.

Obi-Wan had always been a handsome young man but now he looked downright dashing. It wasn't just because of the loss of that ridiculous nerf-tail, even though Qui-Gon wasn't foolish enough to think that it didn't help at all. No, it was more in the bearing with which he carried himself, confident and self-assured, a man certain of his place in the world. But even as the Jedi Master watched, he saw the self-confidence rapidly being stripped away with every step Obi-Wan took to come closer to him, replaced by the hesitant insecurity of a young man.

Had he been such a domineering master that just being around him made his former padawan so uncertain of himself? Qui-Gon found the idea of that worrying. He hadn't realised it in all the twelve years they'd been together, but now that he thought of it, he realised that he really hadn't done much by way of praising Obi-Wan or at least reassuring him that he did a great job.

Perhaps it was just as well Obi-Wan was finally free from him.

“Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon smiled. “Congratulations on your Knighthood.”

Obi-Wan smiled at him. It was an awkward thing, like he wasn't sure how Qui-Gon would have responded to his presence.

“I, uh…” He looked down, chewing on his lips as he was wont to do when he was nervous about something. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Whatever for? You've made me so very proud,” said Qui-Gon with a smile. “I could never dream of asking for a better padawan as you had been to me.”

Obi-Wan didn't seem to have heard him, clearly preoccupied with agonising over something else.

“I heard from the Council that you hadn't taken Anakin on as padawan,” said Obi-Wan after a while.

“That's right.”

Force, he was getting breathless even from speaking as little as he had. He felt an insane need to sit down but refused to indulge himself when Obi-Wan clearly had more to say.

“Why?”

Where did he start? There were so many reasons not to take Anakin on as padawan. For starters, there was his fragile health. As he was, how could he teach the boy lightsaber katas when he could hardly stand on his own two feet? How could he provide Anakin with a wholesome education when he couldn't go gallivanting around the galaxy on starships, handling offworld missions? Then, there was the fact that Anakin needed to be around the other Jedi younglings more if he was to have any chance of settling into life at the Temple fully. If he was Qui-Gon's padawan, he would be living in Qui-Gon's quarters, away from the other Initiates. To make matters worse, he'd unwittingly earn the ire of the senior Initiates. A newcomer who was already a padawan at nine years of age? Unacceptable. Qui-Gon knew very well how cruel younglings could be towards people they didn't like, Jedi or no. But above everything else, Qui-Gon didn't trust himself to be master to another young boy. He'd failed to foresee Xanatos' fall and take measures to prevent it; he'd failed to let Obi-Wan grow to the full measure of his talent. What sort of master would he be for Anakin, a boy so teeming with potential that even wothout training, he was privy to the gentlest nudgings of the Force?

There was so many things to say, yet he didn't have the energy to say any of it.

“In another three years, maybe. We'll see.”

More awkward silence. Since when had the two of them gotten this way? They used to be able to speak their minds freely to each other. They'd disagreed, argued, and make up all within the span of a single day. When had this changed?

A small voice in Qui-Gon's head told him that they had never truly been comfortable in each other's presence. Qui-Gon was just too caught up in his own mind to acknowledge it.

He tamped down on the errant thought immediately. No, whatever it was, his partnership with Obi-Wan was as natural as fish to water. He had no doubt about it — wasn't going to start doubting it now.

“I was thinking,” said Obi-Wan carefully. “Maybe we could be mission partners.”

“No.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think better. Maybe it was his exhaustion, but it came out harsher than what he'd intended.

No, he'd wanted to say. You shouldn't have to be saddled with your old, ailing master, shouldn't confine yourself to dealing with petty squabbles on the Senate as Coruscant-based missions were wont to be. You should be free, free to go wherever you wanted, be your own master and solve your missions however you wanted. Be bold, be confident, be reckless. Be yourself.

Qui-Gon felt faint. He'd really been standing for too long.

“But think about it, we could—”

“No,” Qui-Gon repeated, more firmly this time.

Obi-Wan flinched. Before Qui-Gon could gather his thoughts, Obi-Wan spoke again.

“Well, then. I suppose we should just dissolve our training bond, then.”

For a moment, Qui-Gon said nothing. Normally, a master and padawan's training bond was severed during the Knighting Ceremony as part of the ancient ritual. That Qui-Gon was stuck on Naboo during Obi-Wan's ceremony meant that their bond was never severed. He'd known this all along, but had instead chosen to remain silent on the matter. If truth be told, he'd enjoyed it, being able to sense the constant hum of Obi-Wan's Force presence. They both shielded well enough that neither projected to the other unnecessarily, and both respected each other enough not to go prying. To his mind, there was no harm in leaving the bond as it was.

Then again, that was his opinion. Obi-Wan was a knight now, fully entitled to his own opinions and decisions.

“That would be wise.”

The last thing he felt through their bond was the sharp spike of anger emanating from Obi-Wan before the bond was harshly severed, leaving Qui-Gon reeling in its wake. Qui-Gon looked at the face of his former padawan and found that he couldn't actually tell what was on the other's mind. Was this how he looked whenever he was angry with Qui-Gon? How long had he been angry without Qui-Gon knowing?

“I'll be leaving tomorrow,” said Obi-Wan. “Will you be there?”

A surge of hope rushed in Qui-Gon's chest. Maybe he was wrong after all. Maybe Obi-Wan wasn't angry with him.

“Definitely,” said Qui-Gon with a smile.

Obi-Wan inclined his head and escaped in a hurry.

That night, Qui-Gon broke out in a fever as he went to bed. He'd been too tired to bother going back to the Healing Halls, so he'd gone straight to bed thinking he'll sleep it off. When he came to, he found himself staring at the whitewashed cailing of the Healing Halls. According to Vokara, the healer had sent her padawan to check in on him when he'd failed to check in with them in the morning as was promised and found him unconscious in his room. Qui-Gon stared at the night sky outside the window and realised that he'd failed to send Obi-Wan off. Obi-Wan would understand when he found out why, of course. He always did. There wasn’t a single mean bone in the young man’s body.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed in himself. Another missed opportunity. There’d be other chances to make up to Obi-Wan, of course. But how many was there left him? He wasn’t getting any younger with each passing day. How long until he went to sleep and never got up again?

Qui-Gon pushed the thought out of his mind. No. There will be a next time. He was sure of it. All he needed to do was make sure that he didn’t botch it up again.


	2. So much to do | So little time

_“Master, I don’t understand this passage.”_

_“Master, Madam Jocasta says that I need your access code if I want to make a copy of these texts for my assignment.”_

_“Master, can you help me with these katas?”_

_“Master, I can’t find my other boot!”_

_“Master—”_

_Qui-Gon suppressed a groan. He didn’t know why Obi-Wan kept pestering him all day for tiny little things like these. The boy was sixteen standard already. Can he truly not handle all of those mundane issues himself? Can he not see Qui-Gon wanted to be left in peace?_

_He dragged himself out of the meditation cushion and went over to where his padawan was currently having a mini crisis trying to balance too many holobooks in his arms. Really, the stack was so high, the pile literally obscured his line of vision. Qui-Gon grabbed half of the pile and held it in his arms._

_“Where are you going?” he asked with a sigh._

_“I’m returning them to the library.”_

_Qui-Gon sighed again. “Let us go, padawan.” Was it his imagination, or did Obi-Wan seem to be getting an insane amount of holobooks from the library these days? Surely he couldn’t be reading all of them? He squinted at one of the titles in the stack. Hadn’t he seen this title in the stack they returned last week?_

_Madam Jocasta beamed at Obi-Wan when they showed up._

_“Here to return the holobooks already? Oh my. The books you’ve requested will be ready for collection in thirty minutes. Be back here by then, and not one minute before.”_

_“Thank you, Madam Jocasta.” Obi-Wan checked his chrono as master and padawan stepped out of the library. “Say, master, it’s lunch time. Should we check to see what offerings the refractory has today?”_

_Qui-Gon frowned. He really just wanted to go back to their quarters and stay there. Then again, there was that stack of promised holobooks to be collected in thirty minutes and it made more sense to hang around here than walk all the way to their quarters and back again._

_There was a pattern to his padawan’s requests for help, Qui-Gon realised. Often, it involved dragging him out of their shared quarters close to meal time, followed by an invitation to eat together. He inhaled deeply, held it and let it out. How long had it been? Three months? Four? Was he really reacting so badly to Tahl’s death that his padawan needed to make up a string of excuses to get him out of their room and made sure he ate?_

_Obi-Wan was wearing a look on his face that said he was terrified Qui-Gon would say no._

_How long had the silence lapsed? He wasn’t sure. Couldn’t be sure. Everything seemed to take such a huge amount of effort to do these days, from getting out of bed to dressing and talking and eating. Especially eating. He was never one who ate for the sake of eating, and now that he had no appetite for anything, he didn’t see why he should be forcing food down his gullet._

_Except it was a foolish thought. Certainly his body required sustenance even if he didn’t feel like eating. With no small amount of effort, Qui-Gon reached down and held Obi-Wan’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Thank you, Obi-Wan.”_

_The smile on the boy’s face made the effort worth it. Made it worth it forcing himself through a semblance of an acceptable daily routine until he could finally move without feeling like he was dragging a ten ton weight in his chest._

 

 

Qui-Gon was worried about Anakin. He’d hoped against all odds that the boy would be able to blend in with the other younglings and make friends of his own, but thus far, the boy had proved to be withdrawn and sullen whenever he was placed his together with his age mates, sneaking away at the first opportunity. Just like now.

Earlier, as they passed through Lake Level after spending the entire afternoon practising lightsaber katas, they’d come across a group of younglings swimming in the lake. He’d seen the longing look in Anakin’s eyes and gave him the rest of the day off, thinking he’d want to play with them. Qui-Gon had spent all of five minutes chatting with Ali Alann and the next thing he knew, Anakin was nowhere to be found.

He’d be at Qui-Gon’s quarters, of course, tinkering with one thing or another inside there. Already, his prowess with mechanics was making rounds in the Temple — he’d managed to build his first training lightsaber within a week, a feat that normally took months to accomplish. Qui-Gon supposed he should enroll the boy in some of the more advanced classes, if only so he wouldn’t end up channeling his talent and energy into doing things that were… less than legal.

Sure enough, as soon as he rounded the corner into the corridor leading to the rooms he once shared with Obi-Wan, he saw something speeding out of their door before crashing into the opposite wall. Anakin followed after it in short order.

Qui-Gon froze as he stared at the model. He could recognise the painting on the one of its wings.

“What’s this?” he asked, feeling dread welling up deep inside him.

_No, not this. Not this last thing I have left of Obi-Wan._

“I found three abandoned Verpine fighters inside the room. They were too slow, though, and the workmanship was frankly pretty terrible, so I thought I’d modify it into a droid that can help me fet-” Anakin trailed off, finally catching on to the horrified look on Qui-Gon’s face. He swallowed. “Did you want them?”

Qui-Gon looked at the stricken look on Anakin’s face, the uncertainty, as if he knew he was in deep trouble but wasn’t quite sure if he should stay or bolt and forced himself to calm down.

“No. They belonged to Obi-Wan,” said Qui-Gon in what he hoped to be a neutral tone.

Anakin’s expression shifted. Understanding and horror filled his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

And Qui-Gon could tell that he truly was. He might not have a full understanding of how much the toys meant to Qui-Gon, but he understood enough to know that it was a lot.

“That’s alright. Obi-Wan outgrew them a long time ago. Didn’t even bother to take them with him. I’ve been meaning to get rid of them some time.” Qui-Gon gave him what he hoped to be a reassuring smile. From the look on Anakin’s face, he knew he was fooling no one.

Later that night, Qui-Gon found himself siting in the star map room alone, staring at the hologram of the entire galaxy hovering slowly before his eyes. He had always been a terribly neglectful master, always more intent on chasing his goals than paying attention to the needs of his own padawan. How many times did Qui-Gon end up abandoning Obi-Wan alone on some foreign planet to complete their assigned mission simple because Qui-Gon was distracted by his need to carry out the will of the Living Force? No wonder Obi-Wan had never come to appreciate the Living Force. What kind of child appreciates an invincible entity that keeps dragging his parent-figure away from him?

The longer Obi-Wan spent avoiding him, the more certain Qui-Gon was that his padawan felt about him the same way he did his own former master.

There was so much that Qui-Gon had wanted to say to Obi-Wan — apologise, ask for forgiveness, anything to assuage the other man’s ire. But he didn’t. Dared not, because he knew that he didn’t deserve his former padawan’s forgiveness. Deep down inside, Qui-Gon was a broken man. Had been for a long time now, held together only by sheer stubbornness. When did this happen? When Xanatos shattered his heart with his betrayal? When Tahl had died and took half his soul away with her? Or was it even earlier than both, dating way back during his tumultuous apprenticeship with Master Dooku when he had shattered the then young Qui-Gon’s innocence so completely and thoroughly that it was all Qui-Gon could do not to spend his life living like a cynic the way the other man did? Qui-Gon couldn’t tell. He could only tell that if he’d begged, and Obi-Wan refused to forgive him as was his right, it’d be the final straw to crack him up completely. Qui-Gon would never recover from that blow. So he’d kept his silence and watched fron afar as Obi-Wan ducked into the nearest exit every time Qui-Gon appeared at the opposite end of the corridor he was in.

Qui-Gon buried his face in his knees. Why did Yoda ever think that it’d be a good idea for him to take anyone on as padawan learner? Xanatos had fallen and Obi-Wan’s success was more in spite of his teaching than because of it. He hoped against all hopes that he could do right by Anakin, but knew that it wasn’t possible. No, Anakin deserved better. Tomorrow, he’d start introducing Anakin to other Jedi Masters. Try to get him to know more people. They had until his thirteenth birthday for someone to take him on as padawan learner. Perhaps he’d find someone he liked better before that.

 

* * *

 

Anakin was bored. Sure, Qui-Gon had given him some reading assignments before he’d left but Anakin had no intention of ever getting them done. Reading was boring. He would have preferred it if the Jedi had asked him to practice fifty rounds of lightsaber katas. The other Initiates were probably at the salles now, however, so he was staying well away from it.

It wasn’t that they were mean to him. He just couldn’t dumb himself down to their level. They lived such sheltered lives in the Temple that often, they had such a simplistic view of the world, believing in nonsenses such as achieving victory through peace. Everyone had stared at him in profound horror when he voiced the need for aggressive negotiations sometimes. That was probably why he connected so much better with the senior padawans — they, at least, had seen enough of the world to know the truth of his words.

He felt Qui-Gon’s Force presence outside the door to his room seconds before the door hissed open to admit the tall man.

“What’s the mission about?” asked Anakin, running up to him. He was practically bouncing with excitement. Earlier, the Jedi had agreed to let him help out with the mission where possible. A mission! It was all Anakin ever wanted.

Qui-Gon frowned at him, giving him to same look his mother always did when she was sure he had done something wrong but wasn’t quite sure what yet. “Have you finished your assignments?”

Anakin scrunched his nose. “No. But reading is stupid — it’s useless! Why should we bother reading and writing when we have lightsabers?”

“Because, Anakin, violence only begets violence and sometimes, you’ll find that a few words work more wonders than a weapon ever could.”

Anakin pouted. From his experience, action was the only way you can get people to listen. The Jedi were fools if they thought otherwise.

“I’m being sent to oversee the negotiations for the approval of more funds for the Coalition of Sentient Rights Activists,” said Qui-Gon after a while, when it became apparent that Anakin wasn't going to say anything else on the matter.

Anakin blinked at him, confused.

“In other words, if the negotiations go through more credits will be channeled into the ongoing efforts to track down and persecuting cartels involved in the trading of sentient lives.”

Slavery.

Anakin’s rush of excitement at the idea that all of the slaves would finally be freed lasted only for a second.

“It’ll just line the pockets of the higher ups and end up funding more illegal activities,” he muttered unhappily. “If you want to end slavery, you have to take blasters to the slave owners. That’s the only language they know.”

“Can you guarantee that no innocents will be harmed if a blaster fight was to break out?”

Anakin frowned, considering. The Hutts would not hesitate to use their slaves as body shields, that was true.

“But what you said earlier about embezzlement — that is, illegally taking money meant for the people for one’s personal gain — is true. Which is where we come in. The Jedi had been called in to look into the operations of the Coalition. Make sure that they’re not secretly involved in anything illegal themselves. Your job, if you’re still keen on your earlier promise to help me, is to help me read through the manifesto and look for any possible loopholes.”

Anakin scowled, caught between going back on his promise and condemning himself to doing something he hated.

Qui-Gon fixed him with a stern look. “This is important, Anakin. If we fail to discover a loophole, the coalition can exploit it to their own gains and they won’t ever be incriminated for it.”

The word ‘injustice’ hung unspoken in the air.

Anakin’s scowl turned into a glower. He hated it when Qui-Gon exploited his sensibilities to his own gain. Clearly, this was the Jedi Master’s not-so-subtle attempt to teach him the importance of mastering his reading and writing skills.

“Okay,” he muttered unhappily, not liking it one bit. “Can we go see Clee Rhara after that?” he asked. Qui-Gon had introduced him to the pilot last week and he’d bonded well with her and her apprentice, Garen instantly over their shared love for piloting. Clee was also one of the rare Jedi who didn’t care for honorifics and genuinely didn’t mind that he didn’t call her ‘master’.

Qui-Gon’s brows rose. “But of course. I promised you that, didn’t I? A Jedi never goes back on his promise.”

Anakin glared at the Jedi for the unspoken reprimand — he’d once promised to finish any assignments Qui-Gon gave him, and this was Qui-Gon’s reminder to him to keep his promise. Still, he could hardly be held at fault. That was a long time ago, way before he knew Qui-Gon would saddle with him with so many boring assignments.

“Shall we get started?” asked Qui-Gon, producing a datapad from the folds of his robes. Anakin sighed. Well, they might as well get this done and over with as fast as possible so that he can have the rest of the day to himself. He’d learn this much from his time working under Watto.

“Fine.”

 

* * *

 

_Someone was shaking Obi-Wan’s shoulders urgently, dragging him forcibly out of the clutches of the night terror that plagued his dreams. Distantly, Obi-Wan was aware of someone screaming and realised it was him._

_His eyes flew open. Instantly, the familiar visage of his master’s face came into view, hovering over him with a concerned look on his face. Before he could think better of it, Obi-Wan flung himself onto his master, clinging on to him desperately._

_Qui-Gon held him and rocked him back and forth in soothingly, calmly reassuring him._

_“Shh… No need to cry now. That’s alright. Everything’s alright.”_

_When Obi-Wan had finally calmed down, Qui-Gon served them both tea and sat as he listened to a stuttering Obi-Wan babble about his latest nightmares — were they Visions of the future? Obi-Wan could never tell. He never saw things vividly the way other Jedi did. Rather, his Visions were a vague thing — a flash of colour, a glimpse of a face, a sense of premonition, a breath of burning flesh… As a crecheling, he could never tell what they meant, or even if they meant anything at all; as an Initiate with his own room, he’d learn to keep them to himself, suffering the effects of a sleepless night the next day with a brave face. Perhaps the best thing being a padawan was that he now had an adult who would comfort him after a particularly bad night terror and sit and listen to him patiently as he spluttered out an incoherent chain of words that meant little even to his own ears._

_When at last he was done speaking, Qui-Gon would invite him to a joint meditation. It didn’t matter where they were — in their shared quarters in the Jedi Temple, in the hold of a starship enroute to some planet for a mission, in some dingy room on a foreign planet — Qui-Gon would find a place for them to sit together, patiently guiding his padawan through the necessary steps to untangle emotion from fact. Some times, it took all night to do it, but never once did the Jedi Master express discontent at having lost sleep on account of his padawan._

 

It was hard to meditate while on a starship that was his transport to Geonosis. There was simply too much interference, be it from the deafening roar of the ship’s hyperdrive or the violent tremors that coursed through the entire ship every few seconds. Truth be told, Obi-Wan was somewhat afraid that the ship was seconds away from falling apart. Why he’d chosen this ship when he could have had his pick from any of the transports in the hangar, Obi-Wan wouldn’t know.

No, actually he did know. He’d seen Qui-Gon show up in the hangar with Master Clee, Garen and Anakin in tow and had bolted up the first ship within sight. That it was of a model that had been outdated before Qui-Gon was born hadn’t seemed like a problem when they were on land and he, desperate for a place to hide.

Now, stuck in an ancient vehicle in space with nowhere else to go, he wondered about the wisdom of his decision. Truth be told, he’d been acting like an idiot for over a year now where Qui-Gon was concerned. It wasn’t like they’d had a massive argument or anything. Rather, they never truly got around to resolving their differences over Anakin and Naboo, and the longer things were left as they are, the more the awkwardness between them grew, to the point of being unbearable. He really should suck it up and confront Qui-Gon, but the mere idea of it terrified him. What if the confrontation only led to the realisation that Obi-Wan didn’t matter to Qui-Gon at all? That Obi-Wan had been nothing but a massive disappointment to him? Surely that must be the reason Qui-Gon was so eager to be rid of him the first chance he got?

Or maybe he was just a coward and a nervous-wreck with low self-esteem.

It probably served him right if the starship fell apart now and blasted him into open space. It was a fitting end indeed for an idiot such as he. A morbid part of him wondered if his master would miss him if that really did happen.

Perhaps not. Qui-Gon wouldn’t dwell on such things. Indeed, from what he’d seen so far, the Jedi Master had been more than content to dote on Anakin. Really, everyone loved Anakin, including his old friend Garen, who would not stop talking about the boy’s phenomenal piloting skill every time they met. Grudgingly, Obi-Wan had to admit to himself that Anakin was a charming boy. In any other position, he probably would have long since fallen for the boy’s charms as well.

Jealousy was unbecoming of a Jedi.

He tried to release the emotion to the Force, but found it hard to do so when he could hardly hear himself think over the deafening roar of the hyperdrive and the constant clattering of machine parts as rusty screws fought to hold the starship together.

So instead, he found himself stuck with his whirlwind of emotions and residual dread from a half-forgotten Vision. He had a bad feeling about this.

 

* * *

 

_Qui-Gon was no stranger to pain. Once, he’d faced down an entire army alone and endured twenty-odd blaster burns as well as a broken rib to buy time for the Senator he’d been sent to protect to escape to safety. Another time, he’d marched with a tribe of war refugees to safety with a broken ankle. In the grand scheme of things, pain was easy, nothing but a combination of sensation and emotion that can be released to the Force over and over again until the wound mended on its own. Facing an angry Healer for what she perceived to be a gross negligence of one’s own health, however, was a different matter entirely._

_“Well, if only you’d come in for your vaccinations on schedule, you wouldn’t be stuck in bed with rhinopox now,” said Vokara unsympathetically while her two charges stared back at her mournfully, hands itching to scratch at the rashes that covered their bodies._

_“I told Obi-Wan to schedule it.”_

_“I told Master Qui-Gon there was no time but he did nothing about it.”_

_“If only you would not insist on that swimming expedition—”_

_“You refused to cut back on meditation time!”_

_Vokara crossed her arms. “Impressive. And how long did you two spend rehearsing this argument before I came in?”_

_Poor attempt at deception thus called out, master and apprentice stared abashedly at the floor._

_“If it helps, we didn’t rehearse it at all,” Qui-Gon offered. “We’re just that good at doing things together impromptu.”_

_“Actually, he’s good at coming up with harebrained plans. I’m just good at rolling along with everything he throws my way,” Obi-Wan amended._

_“I get us both out of trouble,” said Qui-Gon, shooting his padawan a Look._

_“And I make sure we stay out of trouble.” Obi-Wan stared back defiantly, daring his master to contradict him._

_“Thanks to my teachings, of course.”_

_Obi-Wan made a face at him. Qui-Gon responded with a mock serene look._

_Vokara groaned. “Why did the Council think it’s a good idea to let you two partner up, I don’t know. You two do nothing but amplify each other’s bad traits.”_

_“On the contrary, I think we make a pretty marvelous team. We even share our diseases with each other.”_

_Qui-Gon ducked, narrowly missing the stylus Vokara flung at his head. It soared right past and struck Obi-Wan who wasn’t quite as fast._

_“Hey,” master and padawan said together in perfect unison._

_Vokara rolled her eyes._

_“Look, next time, don’t wait until you’re critically ill before coming in, okay?”_

_Qui-Gon exchanged glances with his padawan. Both knew that there was no way they could keep to that promise. It wasn’t that they disdained the Healers. It was simply that they got injured during missions so frequently, and spent so much time on high-risk missions that they were both self-proclaimed experts in treating their own injuries. If they got sick, it wasn’t usually something that rest, tea and meditation couldn’t handle. What good was the Healing Halls to them when they probably spent a grand total of twenty-odd standard days in the Temple in a standard year?_

_“We’ll do our best,” said Obi-Wan solemnly._

_Which wasn’t really a promise to anything at all. The Jedi Master kept on a straight face even as he smiled to himself. Obi-Wan would make a fine negotiator yet._

 

 

Qui-Gon sat in the sterile white room of the consultation room, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. This was the sixth time in a month that he’d blacked out without warning. Thank the Force it had occurred after the session with the Senate had ended and he was enroute back to the Jedi Temple. The Jedi couldn’t afford to appear weak before the Senate if they were to have any sort of presence in the motion.

“Well, the results are out,” said Vokara, scrolling through her datapad rapidly.

Qui-Gon looked at the space over her shoulder where her shadow was conspicuously missing. It must be bad news if she’d dismissed her padawan from the room.

“You can let him stay in here for this, you know. I don’t mind. He needs to learn some day.”

Vokara lifted her eyes from the screen, meeting Qui-Gon’s straight on. “Oh, I’ll let him in one day all right. But that day’s not today. He just became my padawan two weeks ago. Kid’s just eleven. Now’s too early for him to handle listening to this sort of conversation.”

That confirmed the severity of his diagnosis.

“So, since he’s not here, there’s no reason to be stalling. What’s my diagnosis?”

Vokara worked her jaw for a moment, struggling with going with her usual flow and just giving Qui-Gon what he wanted. She decided to go with the latter, too accustomed to the man’s stubborn ways to know that to do otherwise would be as fruitful as trying to demolish a cliff using only one’s bare fists.

“Bloodburn,” said Vokara grimly.

Qui-Gon kept his face neutral. He was no medic, but even he had heard of the fatal disease.

“It normally affects young people, especially pilots,” Vokara continued. “We believe it has to do with genetic susceptibility. Either your body agrees to space travel, or it doesn’t, in which case it will let you know fairly early on. Which is why, in your case, I believe you may have contracted it from blood transfusion.”

The only time he’d received blood transfusion was after the Battle of Naboo.

“Is there a cure?” asked Qui-Gon, even though he knew the answer. Still, it needed asking, if for no better reason than to stall. Besides, the answer was probably sitting somewhere in the list of Vokara’s ‘must deliver’ information. Might as well get it out of the way now.

Vokara shook her head. “There are… options to help slow the progress of the disease but nothing definitive. There’s a serum that’s in development right now that is showing some promise, but that’s about it.” She paused. “I’m sorry, Qui-Gon.”

Qui-Gon took the news in calmly. “Well, damn good job that I’ve already clocked in sixty years worth of life, isn’t it?” He chuckled softly to himself. “How long do I have?”

“It varies with people, of course, but if everything progresses at the normal rate, you have 85% chance of living for another ten years.”

“Amazing odds for a man my age. Heck, I might even die of old age before that.”

Vokara refused to respond to that out-of-place jibe.

“Remember to stay hydrated and keep your level of stress down to a minimum. Dehydration and stress have been shown to speed up the progress of the disease,” she said instead. “I’ll inform the Council to take you off active duty with immediate effect.”

“Oh, come now. I still have that negotiations at the Senate to oversee.”

“With immediate effect, Master Qui-Gon,” Vokara repeated in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. “Also, you should cut back on your tea consumption.”

Qui-Gon stared at Vokara. “Surely you can’t mean to make me spend the rest of my days living out a hellish existence?”

Vokara shrugged. “It’s your choice if you want to hasten towards your own demise. But must I remind you there’s a child who’s depending a great deal on you?”

It was actually a sound reasoning, and one that Qui-Gon could not refute.

“What else do I need to know about this disease?” asked Qui-Gon with resignation.

Vokara drew out a datapad, flicked through it for a moment before turning it over for Qui-Gon to see. “The disease progresses through three stages. Stage one is when you’ll experience black outs and irregular spikes of fever. Typically, this lasts for about six to eight years. Stage two is when the disease spreads to the nerves. There’ll be pain.” Vokara looked up at Qui-Gon, her eyes grim. Intense pain. Qui-Gon nodded. She moved on. “Stage three is where the disease gets its name. The blood will turn against the body and start heating up, bringing on a fever that keeps going higher and higher until the host eventually dies from overheating.” She paused for a while to let her words sink in. “Patients tend not to live for long once stage three sets in.”

Qui-Gon nodded again, unable to bring himself to say anything. What was there to say? There was a time for gallow’s humour, and a time for silence. Qui-Gon wasn’t so senile that he couldn’t differentiate between the two.

It was standard medical procedure, it seemed, to notify the supplier of the contaminated blood product of the defect. It was necessary, so that the donor can be traced and all other blood products from the similar source discarded. Or something like that. Qui-Gon wasn’t quite sure what happened in the logistics department of the Halls of Healing.

“I’m so sorry, Master Jinn,” said the healer who had been in charge of treating him back on Naboo, a young woman by the name of Bené. Her face was tinged blue from the projection rays of the holocom, but there was no mistaking the distressed look on her face.

“Don’t worry about it,” Qui-Gon insisted. “You did what was needed to keep me alive. It’s not your fault the blood products were contaminated. You couldn’t have known.”

“But you’re dying now because of me,” she countered.

“No. I am alive right now because of you,” said Qui-Gon gently. “The only reason I can be worrying about dying now is because you stopped me from dying on Naboo. Don’t be too harsh on yourself.”

“But you saved our entire planet. It was the least I could do.”

“Actually, your people saved Naboo. It was the Gungan’s grand army that had provided the distraction for Queen Amidala to infiltrate the palace; your queen, her handmaidens and royal guards that accosted Nute Gunray; your pilots and Anakin who destroyed the Central Intelligence Processor controlling the droids. All I did was face off with a Sith, and I didn’t even manage to so much as scratch him.”

It was Obi-Wan who had come through in the end and killed the Sith Lord. Obi-Wan, who had stubbornly clung to him and channelled his own Force energy into him until the Naboo team could arrive and transfer him off for medical attention. Obi-Wan who dealt with the mess left behind in the wake of the battle. Obi-Wan who oversaw the peace treaty between Theed and the Gungans.

Qui-Gon was so proud of him, even though he had no right to be proud. The role of a master was to be a guide to his padawan, but if Qui-Gon was really honest with himself, he had been a piss-poor guide to Obi-Wan. This fact only made itself more and more obvious the more he reflected on it after Naboo. No wonder Obi-Wan was always avoiding him these days.

He reflected on his own relationship with his estranged former master. Karma, it seemed, had a way of returning to bite one in the posterior when one least expects it.

Bené was speaking. “Regardless, I am most sorry, Master Jinn. If there’s anything at all that I can do—”

“Actually, there is,” said Qui-Gon, interrupting her. “Be the best healer you can ever be and save more lives.” He smiled. “Don’t let this bring you down. I cannot be the reason the galaxy becomes one healer short.”

Bené nodded, lips quivering.

Late that night, alone in his room for the first time since he’d found out about his illness, Qui-Gon found himself staring numbly into space as the gravity of the situation finally sank in.

Ten years.

He shouldn’t be ungrateful, he knew. How many people throughout the galaxy died before their tenth birthday because they could not afford to pay for treatment for their illnesses? How many innocents were killed in slavery, in illegal labour, in unforeseen circumstances? It was a gift to have been alive for as long as he had. If he died in his sleep tonight, he should be celebrating his sixty years of life than mourning his missed opportunities to do more.

Instead, he was granted ten years. An insignificant man, granted ten years more of life, and blessed with the foreknowledge of his impending death.

In ten years, Obi-Wan would be a senior knight, a Jedi Master with a padawan of his own, if everything went well. Anakin would have long since settled in to Temple life, a senior padawan not long before his Trials. He would even get to be there for Bant’s Knighting Ceremony, which couldn’t be long from now. Tahl would be proud, he knew.

So why did the future seem so dire, so bleak? He meditated upon it, seeking answers that he knew could never be found for the simple reason that he was asking the wrong questions. Perhaps it was because he was already living on borrowed time as it was. Perhaps he should have died there, that day on Naboo, and this was nothing but Fate catching up with him at last.

Well, at least he’ll be reunited with Tahl at last. That had to be something.


	3. What one wants | What one thinks one needs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I tagged this story under "Star Wars - All Media Types", what I really meant was "Star Wars: Obi-Wan & Anakin" by Marvel. There'll be a few references here and more in the next chapter.

Anakin was staring at the food trays sitting on the counter in the corner of the refractory with a look of such longing that it was a wonder he wasn't drooling all over the empty plate in front of him.

“You can get second helpings if you want to,” Qui-Gon said, already guessing what was on the young boy’s mind. When Obi-Wan first came to him, the boy was always hungry, devouring everything and anything placed before him with the gusto that could rival that of a rancor. No doubt young Anakin was no different.

Anakin’s head swiveled on his neck to look at him so rapidly that it was a wonder he didn't give himself a whiplash. Qui-Gon registered the look of alarm on his face before the boy lowered his head and shook it insistently. A loud rumbling sound contradicted his message. Instead of looking bashful for having been caught lying, Anakin shrank into himself, frightened.

Qui-Gon looked to Anakin's plate, spotlessly clean with not a single crumb of food nor a drop of gravy in sight. Somewhere behind the boy, a young knight was scrapping the balance of her meal into the waste, a distressed look on her face saying everything one needed to know about the state of her mind and the effect it had on her appetite. Not for the first time, Qui-Gon felt his heart ache for the young child’s lost innocence. No doubt when he was a slave, he never quite got enough to eat and offers for more food were 'tests' for greediness in a slave rather than a genuine offer. He mulled over this matter, considering how he could get Anakin to partake in more food without making it seem like the boy was the one who wanted it.

“You know, the muja fruit pudding today looks really good,” said Qui-Gon out loud, drawing Anakin’s eyes back up to his face. “But I don’t think I can finish the entire serving myself. Say, if I got one, do you think you can share half of it with me?”

Anakin's face instantly took on a guarded expression, his eyes darting between the corner of the refractory where the pudding sat and Qui-Gon in rapid succession. No doubt he was wondering if this, too, was some kind of test. Qui-Gon realised belatedly that he had just unwittingly cornered the young boy — he could either say ‘yes’ and fail the test, thereby earning himself a beating for being greedy; or say ‘no’ and get beaten anyway for defying his master. Qui-Gon balled up his frustration at the universe at large for all the sufferings that prevailed despite the Jedi's best efforts at curbing them and released it slowly into the Force. His next words needed to be said with care, with not a hint of anger in them or Anakin may very well perceive it to be anger at him.

“Anakin, some of your tutors might insist you called them ‘master’, but it’s really just a term of respect. You’re a free person now. No one’s going to beat you just because you want to take an extra serving of dessert and you are most certainly welcomed to tell me ‘no’ if I ask something of you that you don’t want to do,” said Qui-Gon gently.

“No, I’m good,” Anakin insisted. He looked down again, biting on his lips.

Qui-Gon knew better than to push the issue. Some things take time. If he tried to force him into seeing things differently from how he was used to, he’d be no different from Anakin’s previous owners.

He made a show of shrugging, feigning an air of nonchalance. “If you say so.”

He was going to need to investigate more into this. Qui-Gon's immediate assumption about the cause of Anakin's fear and timidity was that they were both results of his time as a slave, but he needed to be sure it wasn't because he was being bullied in one way or another here in the Temple either.

 

* * *

 

Anakin wormed his way through the dark tunnel. When he’d first discovered this escape route four months ago, he’d been able to fit inside with ease and make his way out of the Temple without issue. He’d always known that when he grew older, he’d outgrow the tunnel and would need to find a new one. However, it quickly turned out that he’d severely underestimated after the magic four months of being fed three full meals a day was capable of performing. Already the tunnel was starting to prove to be a tight squeeze. If he wasn’t careful, he would outgrow the tunnel before the end of the year. Anakin bit back his mounting frustration as his stomach growled loudly yet again, loudly protesting its displeasure at being starved. He really needed to find a new escape route so that he didn't end up spending the rest of his tenure in the Temple starving himself needlessly.

Soon, he was making his way through the crowded streets of Coruscant. Despite having been here nearly every night since he first set foot in the Temple, he'd not outgrown his awe of the city. Everywhere he looked, airspeeders of various makes and models soared past the sky, golden light from the city reflecting off the metal chassis of their sleek bodies. Further above, he could make out the blinking signal lights of orbiting starships, as numerous and uncountable as the stars on the Tatooine night sky. One day, he promised himself, he would be the galaxy’s best starfighter pilot. Today, however, he would have to content himself with playing podracer on an illegal racing circuit. Anakin blended seamlessly into the crowd, shuffling his way along without drawing attention to himself. It wasn’t hard — when you’d been a slave for nine years, you quickly learnt to blend in and move around without drawing attention to yourself. You had to, if you wanted to avoid being your owners’ punch bag for whatever latest grievance they’d suffered.

It didn’t take him long to get out of the Temple District into a part of the city that was significantly grittier and not as affluent. The streets here were narrower and not as brightly lit, covered in centuries old muck that had been trampled into the ground by the endless string of pedestrians. The buildings were also more crude. Chipping paint and flickering bulbs were the norm rather than the exception, and any building that didn’t look on the verge of crumbling into dust at the first storm stuck out like a sore thumb. The crowd, if anything, was thicker here, and significantly more diverse. Rhodians and Weequays roamed the streets drunk while Phindians tottered past, wobbling on limbs controlled by addled brains high on stim. A group of scantily clad Twi’lek hailed customers in front of dingy little shops lit with a myriad of fluorescent bulbs. An Ithorian sang in front of a cantina in some language unknown to Anakin. Honestly, though? Anakin didn’t need any translations. He wasn’t born yesterday and the Ithorian’s stereophonic vocal cords was literally dripping with lewdness.

Where he’d acted small and inconspicuous previously, Anakin now threw his hood back and strode confidently, taking on the mantle of a man who knew his business and wouldn’t hesitate to blast a hole through the first person brainless enough to stand in his way. He hadn’t survived for as long as he did in Mos Espa without knowing how the food chain around these parts worked. The strong preyed on the weak, and they responded to the smell of fear the way a krayt dragon did blood. A Dug leered at him, contemplating his small stature, no doubt considering him an easy prey. Anakin held his gaze and levelled him a glare backed with a spine of durasteel. The Dug turned away, deciding that he wasn’t worth the trouble.

Soon, he got to his destination. The smell of machine oil and exhaust fumes greeted him, as did the sound of tinkering metals and engines roaring in test runs. Instantly, he felt himself relaxing. This place reminded him of home more than the stifling peace of the Jedi Temple did.

“Ya ready for the race, kid?” asked a Quermian named Dono.

The first time Anakin'd been to the racing circuit, he'd spend the night observing the racers and their sponsors from the shadows of the viewing stands, silently analysing each one while keeping an ear out for the gossips around him. It hadn't taken him long to identify his target. Dono was the owner of a particular nasty piece of racing pod that was considered by all who watched the race to be a piece of worthless junk. Nobody was surprised when his hired podracer came in last in the race that night. Anakin, however, had known that even junk can be made to shine given the right overhaul and had approached him after the race was over and the racer fired. If Dono had been skeptical at first, he quickly changed his mind after seeing how fast Anakin could go even on the racing pod as it was, parts unaltered. Before dawn, they'd shaken hands over an agreement. Anakin would perform the necessary adjustments to the racing pod and race for Dono while the Quermian paid for all necessary expenditures. Any winnings they acquired would be split fifty-fifty.

That had been two months ago. Anakin couldn't wait to try the newly modified pod on the actual racing circuit. “You bet.”

 

* * *

 

“The chair recognises the Senator from Alderaan.”

Anakin suppressed a yawn as yet another Senator took the floor. They’d been at it for hours now, the Senators throwing debates back and forth daily, everyone finding an excuse to not have to dig into their coffers to support a motion that, in their opinions, benefited them not one inch. Despite having been called in to observe peaceful proceedings, Qui-Gon had stood up on more than one occasion to lend his voice. Grudgingly, Anakin had to admit that the Jedi did have a way with words — or rather, he had a way of turning words into traps that the Senators trying to angle their way out of committing to what was clearly a just cause would not be able to escape from without risking losing a limb or two. That was all fine and dandy and sometimes exciting, but really, at the end of the day, all he’d learnt from the proceeding was that words were really useless. So far, the Senator from Arkanis remained a staunch opponent, refusing to back down. The worlds under Hutt control is not her concern and she saw no reason why she should expand her home planet’s resources to aid the less fortunate on those planets.

Earlier, before agreeing to taking Anakin out, Qui-Gon had instructed him to pay attention to what was being discussed in the Senate.

"Watch and learn", he’d said.

A few minutes into session, Anakin found out that he really wasn’t interested in the petty arguments of adults who insisted on squabbling like three-year-olds, so instead he turned his attention to other things. He remembered the race yesterday, recalling the comforting hum of the engine beneath him, the rush of adrenaline surging through his veins as he directed the pod past narrow turning after narrow turning, executing daredevil stunts that would have been everyday fodder for the folks on Tatooine but the Coruscant crowd seemed to find thrilling. The pod wasn’t nearly as fast as the Radon-Ulzer he’d built on Tatooine, but the other racers were so slow he’d won first place by a huge margin. Once the race was over, he'd been wary that Dono would attempt to cheat him of his agreed payment. Dono, however, proved to be a Quermian of his word and split the winnings as agreed, even tipping him with the extra credit that could not be split. Anakin had purchased some machine parts with his prize money and couldn’t wait until he could get back and start tinkering with them.

Guiltily, he recalled Obi-Wan’s ships that he had taken apart. At least now, he’d never unwittingly destroy another one of the man’s artifacts.

A polite applause filled the dome-shaped auditorium. It was Anakin’s cue that the session was about to end. He sat up straighter in his seat and caught the corner of Qui-Gon’s lips curling in amusement, no doubt having caught on to his lapse in attention a while back but had simply chosen not to call him out on it. Anakin grinned at him unabashedly. He felt comfortable in his presence the way he did only when he was in the presence of his mother. Sure, Anakin didn’t quite love him the way he did his mother, but Qui-Gon was a close second in his heart.

“This is taking way too long to get approved,” complained Anakin on their way back to the temple. “Why can't the other Senators just say yes already?”

“I'd say that in the beginning, those who sat on the fence are simply concerned. Really, even if something sounded like a good idea to you, it always pays to spend some time listening to the opinions of others and deliberating carefully over it. Hasty decisions are very rarely foolproof.” Qui-Gon sighed. “But you're right. Even by the Republic Senate standards, this really _is_ taking too long for a decision to be made, and I'm sure that a large part of it comes from the fact that some Senators aren't happy spending their planets' funds on helping sentients from planets they deem not to be their responsibility.” He came to a stop beside a large, sleek consular ship and studied it contemplatively. “Maybe some encouragement is in order.”

 

* * *

 

When Anakin got out from his pod and removed his helmet, he did a double take to see a familiar figure collecting his winnings from the Zabrak bookie. Before he could even think of bolting, Qui-Gon turned around and smiled at him.

“That was an amazing race, Starkiller,” said Qui-Gon, using his handle for the races. “Fortunate that I placed my bet on you.”

Anakin swallowed and licked his lips. “Uh…”

“I’ll leave the boy in your care, Qui-Gon,” said Dono. He clapped Anakin on the shoulders and took his helmet away from him with his second set of arms before walking away.

Anakin stared after the retreating back of the Quermian, feeling terribly betrayed.

Qui-Gon stretched out one hand. “Come now, the night is still young. I can think of several ways to spend this winnings.”

Sheepishly, Anakin took the Jedi’s hand and followed him out of the race circuit, walking beside him in silence.

"Dono told me to pass your half of the winnings to you," said Qui-Gon, holding out a drawstring pouch to him. 

Anakin licked his lips and took it. More silence ensued.

“How did you find out?” he asked at last, unable to bear the silence any longer.

Qui-Gon quirked an eyebrow at him. “Just so you know, I’ve spent six decades living on this planet. I have friends everywhere.”

Anakin pouted. He hadn’t thought of that. Actually, he had assumed that Qui-Gon was like all the other snobs in the Temple who would turn their noses down at slum dwellers and act like they didn’t exist. He watched as Qui-Gon travelled through the streets, greeting most everyone ranging from burly bouncers to sleazy hired bed partners with familiar ease and realised with a start that he himself didn’t really know anyone outside the Temple other than Dono, and even that merely because it was absolutely necessary.

“Really, though, Anakin, if you’d wanted to earn a little cash on the side, you could have told me and we could have come together. No need for all those excursions through the garbage chute.”

Anakin stuck out his chin in defiance. “You said I’m my own person now. If I want to come out, I could. I don’t need to tell you everything.”

Qui-Gon hummed, nodding in agreement. “That is exactly right. Which is why no one’s actually going to stop you if you decided you wanted to step out of the Temple in the middle of the night through the Processional Way, with or without me. Temple philosophy is that discipline must come from within. But your mother also placed you under my care, and I can’t take care of you if you go sneaking out to places where I can’t see you, can I?”

In other words, this was Qui-Gon’s roundabout method to call him out for disobeying his mother.

“The other Jedi Masters told me to forget about my mother,” he muttered sullenly. He hadn’t been happy with their order, but he wouldn’t hesitate to execute it if helped him win his argument.

“Have you forgotten her yet?”

Anakin couldn’t lie about this one, so he bowed his head and remained silent.

Qui-Gon gripped his shoulder, drawing Anakin’s attention back to him.

“The Order requires that we let go of all attachments, not that we must cast away all of our friends and family,” said Qui-Gon. “There is a difference between the two, even if many of us seem to act that way. Love and compassion are both important values all Jedi should possess. Without them, there’d be no reason for us to stick our necks out to help others, so I dare say it's even a necessary trait for a Jedi.”

He stepped into the passenger seat of an airspeeder and motioned for Anakin to take the driver’s seat, much to the latter's delight. Anakin hopped in lightly and immediately began inspecting the controls.

“What you must learn, is to love without being blinded by it. You cannot want to hold on to something so much that you’re willing to do absolutely anything to not lose that person. Take, for example, your mother. She loves you. Nothing hurts her more than losing you, yet when it came to it, she was willing to let you leave to pursue your dreams of becoming a Jedi. That is a fine example of loving without getting attached. You should repay her love by concentrating on becoming a Jedi, not get caught up in squabbles with your friends over how much better your mother is than your teachers. That’s not love. That’s you being so attached to the idea that your mother is the best person in the galaxy that you’re unwilling to accept that someone else might think otherwise.”

“They’re not my friends,” Anakin retaliated immediately.

“Your age mates, then,” said Qui-Gon smoothly without missing a beat. “My point stands.” He gestured for Anakin to start driving. “If you want to make friends and blend in to a new environment, you don’t do it by constantly reminding those around you what makes you different.”

“But we _are_ different. The other kids — the Jedi is their family. Not me. I have a mother who loves me.”

“So do they. The only difference is that they had to part with their mothers when they were much younger and can’t remember as much about their mothers. What? Do you think they emerged from trees we plant around the Temple? You’re blessed because you get to spend more time with your mother than them. Don’t rub it in their faces and then expect them to like you.”

Anakin mulled over this. Qui-Gon's words stung, yet they weren't entirely illogical.

“Where are we going?” asked Anakin after a while. Not arguing back was as close as he’ll ever get to conceding that he was wrong. He started the engine and activated the repulsorlift. Instantly, the airspeeder lifted off the ground, hovering several feet above it.

“Down that well into the basement levels,” said Qui-Gon. "Don't worry about the exact level. I'll let you know when we're there. And do go slowly, Anakin. My heart isn't up for the speeds you're used to."

Anakin grinned sheepishly at Qui-Gon and eased the airspeeder forwards, descending slowly. The ‘well’ turned out to be a large, vertical tunnel connecting the upper surface of Coruscant to its lower levels. Despite the hour of the day, traffic was incredibly heavy. Anakin found himself turning his attention to the scenery on each level as he waited in line, watching with a growing sense of dismay as the scenery turned grimmer and grimmer the further down they went. At some one thousand levels below the surface, he finally drew his attention away from his surroundings and looked up, but failed to make out the sky above. He wondered if he would fare better if it was daytime. Would he have been able to see the dot of blue at the end of the tunnel? He doubted it.

"Isn't the lower levels dangerous?" asked Anakin. It wasn't like he was scared, but he was curious to know what Qui-Gon thought. The other Jedi in the Temple frequently warned them to keep away from the sub-surface levels of Coruscant, calling it a dangerous den of criminals.

"Only if you let it be. I've frequently found that there are more honest men to be had among the poor than among the rich." Qui-Gon stroked his beard contemplatively. "But it still doesn't pay to let your guard down. Just do as you did in Mos Espa and you'll be fine."

Anakin nodded.

"Do you come down here frequently?" he asked.

"Not as frequently as I'd like to, considering how little time I actually spend on Coruscant."

The unasked 'why' hung heavily in the air.

“Do you know what’s the most precious commodity to the people living down here?” asked Qui-Gon, breaking the silence before it could stew for long.

“Credits,” said Anakin immediately. Money was always the most precious resource wherever one went. Anyone who said otherwise were entitled nerf-herders who'd never had to go hungry for a single day of their lives and had no right voicing their shallow-minded opinions of the worth of money.

“Well, yes. But assuming you had all the money in the world, what use would it be if you couldn’t spend it on anything?”

Anakin scrunched his nose again. It didn’t make sense. Money was all that mattered. It could buy a slave freedom, acquire one safe shelter from sandstorms, feed hungry stomachs, fulfill a person’s wildest dreams. Yet as he thought about it, he realised he understood what Qui-Gon meant. Money was but a currency, an item used to purchase something one desired.

What was the most valuable thing one would desire and would spend an entire fortune to buy?

Freedom came to the forefront of his mind, but he didn’t say it because he remembered Padme telling him that slavery was outlawed in the Republic. No one valued things that came freely. No, they took it as their due, treating it as if it something that was owed them rather than something invaluable gifted to them by virtue of being born in privilege. So if it was not that, what else? Here on Coruscant, there was food in abundance and even the poor had no want for medical supplies. Lodgings weren’t hard to come by if you didn’t mind staying in a less affluent neighbourhood. So what was it?

“I don’t know,” he admitted grudgingly at last. A large number indicated to Anakin that they were now some two thousand levels beneath Coruscant’s surface.

What do people desperately need down here anyway? Surely it can't be the same thing as for the people living above?

“That's exactly right,” said Qui-Gon, startling Anakin. “Everyone will have different opinions on what's the most valuable resource, the most important thing. But the truth is, there is no one-fits-all answer for anything. The only way to find out, is by getting to know the people and the way they live. Just like how you knew Jira needed a cooling unit because you're always out and about getting to know the locals.”

At this, Qui-Gon flashed Anakin a smile. Anakin beamed back at him.

“Which is why I come down here,” Qui-Gon continued. “To properly function as a Jedi, to bring peace and justice, we must first understand _why_  it was missing in the first place. One way is to meditate on it, open yourself to the Force and listen to the voices crying out in the Force. The other way is to get down and find out for yourself.”

“The second option sounds easier,” said Anakin. He hated meditation. Hated the inaction. Out in the desert, being still could kill you.

“That's what I used to think too. But when you're more attuned to the Force, you may find that the first method comes far more easily and may be much more reliable. Still, I enjoy this second method more. Being around people makes me more attuned to the Force.”

“Just like how I always know what to do when I'm around machines?”

“Just so. Still, that's no excuse for running away from meditation sessions,” Qui-Gon added on in a hurry. "It's important to learn to find your inner core of peace, and to learn to reach it in times of trouble so that you don't let your own emotions sway you. The only way to do that, unfortunately, is if you quieten down and be still.”

Anakin huffed, disappointed that he wasn't going to get a free pass to sneak out of mandatory meditation sessions.

“Did you manage to find out, though?” asked Anakin after a while.

“Find out what?”

“What's the most precious commodity for most, if not all people down here.”

“It's the sky,” said Qui-Gon, gesturing above them. Anakin looked up. All he saw was the light from other vehicles, the glowlamps lighting up the well and the lights from buildings spilling out into the well. “Only the rich and the connected are have the luxury of living on the surface on Coruscant. Most people born in the sub-surface levels of Coruscant would proceed to spend their entire lives working towards moving upwards to the surface. Many end up spending their entire lives living down here without once setting eyes upon the sun. It is something akin to fantasy to them, a dream that one worked towards without expecting to achieve.”

Anakin mulled over this. What a dire fate it must be, to be denied something that others could obtain for free simply because of one's birth.

“Meanwhile on Tatooine, people are dying from having stood too long under the suns,” said Anakin glumly, mulling over the cruel irony of the situation.

“One man's poison is another man's cure. Often, good and bad is all about situation and perspective. Keep that in mind. Also, this is our exit.”

Anakin guided the airspeeder into the docking bay Qui-Gon had gestured towards, feeling relieved. That was too much philosophy for one night.

Whatever he’d thought about the slums area on the surface of Coruscant, the place he was traversing right now was easily a hundred times worse. The stench in the place was unbearable, pungent fumes filling his nostrils as soon as he steered the airspeeder into parking. He followed Qui-Gon out of the airspeeder and trudged doggedly behind the tall man, stealing side looks at with large blobs floating in puddles gathered at the side of the streets. Coupled with the smell and the knowledge that there was no sky for rain to fall from, it didn't take much imagination to figure out what those were. Shadows scuttled along the walls, pests of every form scavenging for food. The walls of some buildings had long since caved in, the gaping segment covered with tarp to give the occupants within some semblance of privacy and protection from the elements. More than once, they came across a sentient lying on their backs staring vacantly above them, only the slight rise and fall of their chests giving any indications that they were alive. 

“Death stick addict,” said Qui-Gon simply by way of an explanation when Anakin turned to him questioningly.

Anakin nodded and hurried along after him, trying to match his stride. He followed the man into a rundown shop at the end of the street.

“Heyho, Jinni guy. Here for the usual?” asked the shopkeeper, a Dresselian that seemed to wear a permanent grimace on her face.

“The usual,” Qui-Gon agreed. “And I’ll take all the bacta you have to sell.”

The shopkeeper narrowed her eyes at him. “Ya hafda the extra credits to pay for ‘em?”

“You better believe it. Got lucky at the races up on the surface.”

“Luck! Hah! Coulda fooled me, Jinni guy. Ya Jedi folks never believed in no luck.” She turned around and shuffled off to the back of the shop. “Where’s the other one? The ginger haired fledgling?”

“Flew out of the nest nine months past.”

The sadness in Qui-Gon’s voice was perceptible. Anakin shot him a look but Qui-Gon avoided his eyes.

“Gah. They always do. Ya know what they always do as well? Bang their heads on some tree somewhere and learn the hard way that there’s no better place than home. They’ll come flying back to visit when that happens. Mark ma words," said the shopkeeper from the storeroom. Soon, she reemerged from the back of her shop hauling four bags of supplies. “That’ll be four hundred and sixty dataries.”

Qui-Gon narrowed his eyes as he inspected the goods. “Surely not. Twenty bacta patches is hardly worth the extra hundred and sixteen dataries.”

The shopkeeper planter her hands on her hips indignantly. “Bacta is hard to come by around these parts.”

“Not after I negotiated the anti-taxation laws on medical supplies three years back. I’ll give you two dataries per patch.”

Anakin watched as Qui-Gon rolled up his proverbial sleeves and haggled with the Dresselian with what had to be the worst negotiating skills Anakin had ever seen. Fifteen minutes later, they were back on the streets, carrying six bags of goods between them and five hundred dataries less.

“You paid more than the original price,” said Anakin accusingly.

“That’s right. But I needed the supplies, she needed the dataries and I got the supplies I needed for a fair price. Sounded like a good enough deal to me. I’m not here to rob the locals of their money, you know. That would be counterproductive to making the purchases down here rather than up on the surface.”

Anakin huffed. It sounded like lousy reasoning to him.

“Where’re we going?” he asked instead, changing the topic.

“You’ll see. It’s just over there.”

‘There’ turned out to be a small makeshift shelter for a group of homeless children. Anakin hovered uncertainly at the entrance while Qui-Gon marched right on in confidently. The children squealed with delight and immediately crowded around Qui-Gon.

"Qui-Gon, you're back!" they squealed, dancing around him.

“Where’s Astri?” he asked with a laugh.

A few children broke off from the crowd and darted to the back of the shelter and reappeared a short while later with a human woman with close-cropped black hair and emerald green eyes in tow. She wore an apron that looked less like an apron and more like a watercolour pallet, smeared as it was with sauce and gravy of all colours. Something brown was smeared across her cheeks and her hair was dusted in flour. The last detail caught Anakin's interest. His mother could bake the meanest rock buns on Tatooine. He wondered if Astri knew how to bake rock buns.

“Been a while since you last came. How’re you doing?” asked Astri, crossing her arms as she came to a stop in front of Qui-Gon. “The Battle of Naboo was all over the holonews. Kids got worried.”

Qui-Gon chuckled. “I manage. How’s Didi?”

Astri sniffed. “Still at his information selling. You’d think he would stop once we sold off our old café, but oh no, he’s addicted to it.” She turned her attention to the bags of supplies. “This is more than the usual,” she said suspiciously, digging through the supplies. “What did you do to get them? Sell information?”

“Actually, I made a well-educated bet on a pilot I knew I could trust. That’s from the prize money.”

Astri looked up at last and noticed Anakin for the first time. Her eyes widened. “You’re Anakin Skywalker?”

A hushed silence fell over all of the children around them. Everyone turned to stare at Anakin, who shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Hello.”

Immediately, the group of children surrounded him, dragging him in.

“Wow, is it true that you flew a starfighter into space?”

“How did you take down that CIP?”

“Come on, let’s show him the speeder we’re building! Maybe he can give us some advise!”

Anakin shot an uncertain look at Qui-Gon, who smiled and waved a hand at him, indicating that he should go ahead and play with the other children. They proudly showed them their project, a speeder that looked ready to fall apart at any minute. The engines roared upon starting, but the repulsorlift was not working and the fuel stabiliser kept spluttering. Anakin dove in at once, identifying the fault in no problem. He pointed them out to the others and immediately began fixing them.

All to soon, Qui-Gon came to collect him.

“Sorry, everyone. I need to get young Ani back to the Temple or I’ll get into serious trouble,” said Qui-Gon.

The children let out a collective sigh of regret. Anakin found that he was disappointed as well. It had been such a long time since he’d enjoyed himself around other children his age.

“We’ll be back again,” Qui-Gon promised.

Anakin beamed. “Really? Wizard!”

Everyone whooped with joy.

“Who are they?” asked Anakin as they made their way back to the speeder.

“Victims of one of the well-intentioned bills passed by the Senate,” said Qui-Gon.

Anakin remembered that the Senate was the massive group of people he’d seen back when Padmé came to Coruscant to give her speech. That felt like a lifetime ago now.

“What happened?”

“When the Senate passed a bill last year to have a large crack down of child labour, thousands of orphans here in the underbowels of Coruscant found themselves suddenly casted out by employers they’d been working with for years,” said Qui-Gon as they walked. “The upper echelons… They frequently think in terms of grand ideas and morals without paying attention to what actually came of their legislations. They thought that by banning child labour, they’ll guarantee a future where all children will be sheltered, protected and received education in school.

“The truth is, the orphans and children from families too poor to afford schooling won’t be going to school anyway, and with the implementation of the new law, they suddenly found themselves without shelter and protection — from employers who cared enough about the law to not want to go against it, meaning the people most likely to at least give them a semblance of fair pay in exchange for their work. Instead, they’re plunged into begging for work from illegal cartels that won’t hesitate to exploit them for their own personal gains. Then, there are those family-owned business where the parents relied on their children to help out with their business during their free time. Suddenly, they needed to employ a new staff or risk being sued. That incurred additional expenditures that most of these small businesses weren’t capable of affording, causing them to cave.”

Qui-Gon gestured to several of the vacant buildings along the street. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s a good idea, and one that should be carried out. But the manner of execution leaves much to be desired. It’s just… You can’t just go to a new place, wrinkle your nose at the local culture which you deem to be barbaric, blatantly enforce your morals upon that place without giving it due consideration and then just up and leave without staying back to monitor the change and ensure that the transition went without any hiccups. That’s not altruism — that’s just being egotistical. It’s also the reason why the Jedi cannot and will not interfere in another planet’s internal affair unless a request for assistance is lodged. We cannot simply go around forcing help upon people where help is not desired.”

“But not everyone who needs help will have the means to ask for help,” Anakin protested. Like the slaves on Tatooine. Their owners would never allow them anywhere near an interplanetary communications device.

“That is where we rely on the Force to guide us. It’s hardly foolproof, but we do what we can, and we do our best to follow up on the places we’d interfered in — make sure that things didn’t just blow up and leave a bigger mess than before we arrived. ”

“Is that why you’re keeping watch over me even though you don’t want to take me as your padawan learner? Because you’re afraid I’m going to just blow up and create a mess?” The idea of it made him feel… sad. Like he was nothing but an extra burden for Qui-Gon. Was that how the Jedi viewed him?

“Why does your mother keep watch over you?” Qui-Gon asked instead.

“Because she loves me.” Anakin realised that this was one of the major reasons he really enjoyed being around Qui-Gon. Of all the Jedi, he was the only one who would acknowledge his mother existed and played a major role in his life and constantly draw analogies from her. “Because I’m her son.”

“In summary, love and responsibility to family,” said Qui-Gon. “The same goes for me. I helped you because I cared for you, and because I care for you, I want to make sure that you’re happy where you are, though a small measure of that is also because I feel a degree of responsibility towards you. I did promise to take care of you.”

They’d arrived at the place where they’d parked their airspeeder.

Qui-Gon sank into the passenger seat, looking far more tired than he should after their short excursion. “Which reminds me… You never found out how I discovered about your little exploits.”

Anakin hopped easily into the driver seat and started the engine. The speeder hummed into life at once. “You said you have friends.”

“Ah, but who? I have friends, but which was the friend that betrayed you to me?”

Anakin frowned. He didn’t know.

“Be careful of diversions, Anakin. You’ll find that many people, especially politicians, have a way of diverting conversations out of topics that they do not wish to indulge in. They’ll seem to answer without really answering anything.”

Anakin eased the thruster forwards, gliding the airspeeder out of the docking bay into the well to ascend back to the surface.

“So who is it?”

“Everyone on the racing circuit actually, though Dono was the first to contact me. Jedi clothings have a very specific weave that is hard to miss by anyone who knows to look. You will do well to wear a disguise the next time you think of doing anything illegal.”

Anakin scowled. He hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t needed to when he was on Tatooine. Slaves never betrayed fellow slaves to the slave owners even if they caught each other doing things they weren't supposed to. It was an unspoken agreement, an unwritten law. Any slave foolish enough to violate it tend not to survive for long.

“But what I said earlier stands. You will tell me the next time you want to go out, won’t you?”

Anakin sighed. “Alright.”

Qui-Gon nodded. As they passed another glowlamp, Anakin noticed the light reflecting off a sheen of sweat covering the Jedi’s face. He wasn’t well. Hadn’t been for a while now, if the persistent whisperings from the Force that rose whenever Anakin was around him was anything to go by. This much, Anakin knew, but he dared not speak of it, lest he trespass some boundaries he was not allowed to pass. So he kept his thoughts to himself.

It can’t be so bad that the healers at the Temple couldn’t treat it, he insisted to himself firmly. Qui-Gon would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, after reading Jedi Apprentice, I am pretty certain that Qui-Gon's pretty much a "Do as I say, not as I do" person. As in, he knows all the theory and stuff but when it comes down to it, he pretty much marches off and just does whatever it takes to get actual shit done. In his defense, he's so attuned to the Living Force that he actually does know that what he's doing is the right thing to do most of the time. But every now and then, emotion clouds his judgement and then stuff just blows up. Cue a confused and terrified Obi-Wan because "OMG Master Qui-Gon's doing that thing where he's defying the Council _again_. Is it going to go smoothly this time or is it going to be disaster?" It doesn't help at all that this man's an emotional mess whenever he's around Obi-Wan so... No. Nothing ever goes smoothly for this man when he's around Obi-Wan. 
> 
> In other words, this is me telling you that Qui-Gon is pretty much shit and the reason he's so level-headed around Anakin in this fic is because he isn't as emotionally attached to Anakin as he is to Obi-Wan. In Anakin's shoes, IDK if I preferred having a brother who loves me so much, he doesn't know how to handle me; or a father who knows how to keep his shit together around me because he's doesn't care for me as much. 
> 
> Anyway, that long, roundabout story above is just so I can tell you that this entire chapter (and a large part of the next chapter) exists purely to satisfy my own HC about what happens _after_ the end of this fic. If you spent the entire chapter thinking that the story's going nowhere in this chapter, that's the reason why. (But really, who am I kidding? This _entire_ fic was written to satisfy my own HC. Why else do people write fanfics anyway?) I actually cut out a whole chunk of meaningless drabble featuring Anakin playing with the kids, as well as the whole conspiracy Astri and Qui-Gon pulled off to feed the kids because including those just led the story further and further away into a weird place that I didn't want to go and I needed to reign it in somehow.


	4. Politician | People who twists words around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really should rename this Unnecessary Chapter #2, because retrospectively, it really is terribly unnecessary. Especially since I cut so many stuff out of it that I think most of the context got lost in transit x.x

Qui-Gon raised his hand and knocked on the door before him. Once. Twice. Thrice. Pause for three seconds. Repeat.

This was a bad idea. Qui-Gon was convinced of it. Yet somehow, Yoda had come tottering along with that gimer stick of his and applied it liberally on the back of Qui-Gon’s cranium until he’d finally relented and agreed to come for a visit.

_“Always thinking like an old man, you did, yet young, your heart was. An old man’s heart you now possess, I see. For an old heart, good it is to talk.”_

Which made no sense whatsoever. During those early days on Naboo, he had been so weak that he could hardly speak more than three-word sentences. Still, there was no arguing with Master Yoda when the troll was being stubborn, so here Qui-Gon was.

It took almost a minute for the occupant of the room to answer the door. Master Dooku’s brows rose in surprise when the older Jedi recognised the person standing in front of his door.

“To what do I owe this visit, Qui-Gon?” asked Dooku, eyeing him warily. “If Yoda sent you here to convince me to…”

“No, no. None of that. Just thought I fancied a visit. I heard that you’re returning to Serenno. Would be hard for me to visit once you’re gone,” said Qui-Gon with a faint smile. He cocked an eyebrow at his former master. “Am I not welcomed here?”

There was a moment’s pause, then Dooku stepped back and held the door open wider for Qui-Gon to step in.

The interior of the room was largely as Qui-Gon remembered it — a narrow bunk set in an alcove for sleeping, a couch for meditation and a work desk. Spartan and straight to the point, just as the man was. Dooku had little tolerance for frivolous things and never cared for nonsensical items such as decorative plants or incense. Whatever he didn’t need, he discarded immediately. 

So it came as a surprise to Qui-Gon when he noticed the spare bedding rolled up and tucked away at the top of a cupboard. The bedding had been his all those years ago back when he’d been a padawan. Jedi were usually assigned larger quarters with two bedrooms upon taking on a padawan, but Dooku had been adamant not to move out of the small quarters assigned him as a freshly minted knight. As a result, Padawan Qui-Gon Jinn had spent nights on Coruscant sleeping on a bedding rolled out on the floor beside his master. He hadn’t minded it back in the early days. Had relished it, even, taking great pride in the fact that he was always close to his master. After their falling out, Qui-Gon hadn’t liked it quite as much and spent many a nights tucked away in the star map room, meditating till daylight. Towards the end, he was hardly ever in this room at all. He hadn’t known that Dooku actually kept his beddings for him — still kept them, in fact, despite having never taken on a second padawan. Back when he was younger, he might not have thought much of it. Now, however, he was a master himself and the implications of the action struck him right in the chest.

“Just in case I have guests,” said Dooku, noticing where he was looking. “It wouldn’t have made sense to go running to the Quarter Masters every single time.”

Which begged the question why any Jedi would have guests when all Jedi were assigned sleeping quarters of their own and non-Jedi were not allowed to spend the night in the Temple.

Qui-Gon smiled. “No. No, it wouldn’t.”

“Tea?” asked Dooku. He quickly amended, “Floral. It was a gift from an old friend. I won’t be taking it away with me, so we might as well have it here.”

So his former master had found out as well. Not that Qui-Gon had kept his illness a secret, but he hadn't exactly gone around telling anyone about it either. He wondered how the old Jedi found out, but decided it didn't really matter.

“Tea would be lovely."

 

* * *

 

 

_Obi-Wan hid in the stairwell where the rest of the creche wouldn’t see him, crying softly into his knees. He’d just arrived at the Temple and missed his family dearly, though none of the other children in the creche seemed to be able to relate. A large blue Twi’lek had welcomed him and told him to treat the place like home, but how could this be home when no one was around to cuddle him and tell him bedtime stories before bed? He missed his mother terribly and wanted nothing more than to get away from this strange place and go home._

_A large shadow fell over him from behind, blocking out the light from the glowlamps. With a start, he turned around to look at the newcomer, terrified at having been caught sneaking out past curfew._

_The man standing on the step behind him was incredibly tall and large, much larger than his father and certainly too big to have been able to walk as silently as he did._

_Obi-Wan shrank away, terrified._

_“Oh dear,” said the man in a deep, rumbling voice. “I thought I was being smart sneaking here for a late night snack. Seems like I’ve been caught.” He descended several steps and sat beside Obi-Wan. “How about we make a deal? I’ll give you half of my cookie, and you keep quiet about seeing me.”_

_Obi-Wan stared at the large chocolate chip cookie in the man’s large hands, his earlier fear of the man forgotten in the face of a new distraction. It smelt delicious, like the ones his mum used to bake at home. Unbidden, his stomach rumbled._

_The man chuckled softly and tore the cookie into half. He held one half out to him. “Be careful. Don’t leave crumbs or we’ll be caught.”_

_Obi-Wan clutched the proffered cookie with both hands, beaming in delight. He gave it an experimental bite. Flavour exploded in his mouth, sweet and rich and crumbly. It didn’t take him long to decimate his share of the cookie. He wiped away the crumbs on his face with his sleeves, feeling a lot better._

_“Wow. Didn’t your creche master give you anything to eat?” the man chuckled. “Here, if you promise not to cry, you can have my half as well.”_

_Obi-Wan beamed as the man handed over his half of the cookie._

_“So, why is a little one like you hiding out here alone? Someone bullied you?”_

_Obi-Wan shook his head as he stuffed his face with the cookie._

_“Eeh ah eh-oh-ee,” he said around the cookie._

_The man reached up and stroked his hair gently. It wasn’t quite as comforting as when his mum did it, but close enough that Obi-Wan leaned into the touch happily._

_“The first few days can be hard,” the man said. “It’ll get better. I promise.”_

_Obi-Wan swallowed. An idea struck him. “Do you miss your family too?”_

_“Well, the Jedi is my family now. That makes you my family. I can’t miss my family when I’m with my family.”_

_Obi-Wan stared at the man with narrowed eyes, not believing a word he said. He couldn’t possibly be his family when he looked so terribly different from his dad and mum, what with the long hair and weirdly-shaped nose. Then again, he gave him food when he was sad, just like his dad always did to cheer him up after he got into trouble with his mum. He stuck his arms out for a hug, because that was what his family always did._

_“Huggy,” he demanded._

_The man leaned forward and wrapped his long arms around him, enclosing him in a warm embrace. The man smelt of tea and and sunshine, just like back at home._

_Obi-Wan yawned, feeling sleepy all of a sudden. The man laughed and swept him up in his arms, carrying him easily as he stood._

_“Come now. Let’s get you back to your clan before your creche master came looking for you.”_

_Obi-Wan nodded sleepily into his shoulder, drooling into his hair. Dimly, he was aware of the rocking movement of the man walking._

_“Master, here you are,” said someone suddenly._

_“Shh. He’s sleeping,” the tall man replied. He patted his back soothingly when Obi-Wan fussed, annoyed at being disturbed._

_“Oh, come on, master. Why do you keep picking up all this random strays?”_

_A soft chortle. “If memory serves, you were once one of these strays yourself, Xani.”_

_More walking. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how long they’d walked, but at some point, he heard the familiar voice of the big blue Twi’lek, followed by the soft reply from the tall man. Then, he was placed into a bed and tucked in, and Obi-Wan knew no more._

_It was nearly two years before Obi-Wan found out the name of the tall man._

_“That’s Master Qui-Gon and his padawan, Xanatos,” said Docent Van when Obi-Wan pointed out the tall Jedi walking past at the opposite end of the refractory with a young, dark-haired man in tow. His blue lekku swished in some Ryl slang Obi-Wan did not understand. “I’m surprised you remember him. You were so deeply asleep back then.”_

_Obi-Wan stared at the man’s back as he walked out of the refractory with his padawan, laughing over some joke shared between them._

_Of course Obi-Wan would remember Qui-Gon. He was family._

 

* * *

 

 

Obi-Wan let out a sigh of relief as he set foot upon the Jedi Temple, grateful for the clean air and cool breeze. After his last stunt on Tatooine negotiating the safe release of the Senator of Arkanis, Lady Celeste Sindian and her retinue, he was so done with being stuck on a desert planet. Sand was absolutely the worst thing to have to live with — it simply got everywhere. It blinded his eyes, clogged up his nostrils, dried his mouth, left millions of microscopic-sized cuts on his skin that was at once invisible to the naked eye yet painful all the same. Worse, it abraded the metal chassis of machines, clogged up engines and was absolutely impossible to remove completely. Despite it being his second visit to the planet, he still found it hard to get used to the place. How anything survived in that hostile environment was anyone’s guess.

He paused when he saw a familiar starfighter performing aerials in impossibly tight loops up in the air. He smiled at the sight. After all those years, Garen Muln still revelled in his piloting stunts.

“Obi-Wan! You’re back!” called a familiar voice. “Damn! What’s with that hair and that beard? I almost couldn’t recognise you.”

Obi-Wan started as he turned to face his childhood friend. Garen Muln was dressed in a pilot’s unisuit rather than the standard Temple-issued uniform, his windswept hair falling messily around his shoulders. Really, apart from the addition of the padawan braid that hung from the back of his right ear down the front of his chest, there was no difference between his get up now and back in the days when he was training to be a pilot with the Starfighter Corps on Centax II. It was just another show of defiance from Master Clee Rhara and his insufferable childhood friend, this blatant refusal to adhere to the norm.

Right now, however, there was a more pressing issue that demanded immediate answers. Obi-Wan blinked once at Garen, craned his neck to look at the starfighter that he could have sworn was an inseparable part of the man, then back at the man himself.

“Uh, if you’re down here, who’s up there?” he asked.

“Why don’t you see for yourself?” Garen hoisted the flag he had tucked into his utility belt and began waving it in the air, probably giving some sort of instructions in that sign language of native to all pilots.

The starfighter made one last somersault before heading for the docking bay. Obi-Wan blinked in surprise to see a tiny figure climbing out of the cockpit. The boy was a good head taller than what he remembered, but there was no mistaking that blond head and snub nose.

“Anakin?” asked Obi-Wan, incredulous.

“Garen! Did you see that?” Anakin shouted, running up to them. He skidded to an abrupt stop some five steps in front of them when he caught sight of Obi-Wan, staring openly at him.

Obi-Wan suddenly felt terribly self-conscious. In the time he’d been away, his hair had grown out and he had added a beard to his face — an actual full beard, and not that pathetic wisp of five o’clock shadow he used to develop back in his teenage years when he’d forgotten to pack his razor and missions took him too far away from civilisation to acquire one. It wasn’t like keeping his keratin cropped short was top on his list of priorities first when he was traipsing through a large forest with a bunch of Wookies that quite honestly had far more hair than he could ever hope to have. Immediately afterwords, he had been sent to negotiate with the Hutts and the beard had helped tremendously to conceal his boyish face. But now that he was back on Coruscant, looking at two clean-shaven human beings, one of whom had a terribly short haircut to boot, he felt like a hairy bantha.

“Well, hello there. That was excellent piloting,” he said by way of breaking the awkward silence, moving forwards to close the distance between them. “I actually thought it would be someone much older.” He leaned down and dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Between you and me, I think you’re better than Garen.”

“Hey, I heard that, you little drek!” Garen snapped, whacking the back of his head.

Anakin smiled forcefully at Obi-Wan, not so young anymore to be easily mollified by a simple praise.

“Hi Obi-Wan.” He sounded uncertain, like he wasn’t sure how to react around the young knight.

To be fair, the awkwardness was mutual, even if between the two of them Obi-Wan was better at pretending it didn’t exist thanks to his older age. A voice at the back of his head acknowledged that a large part was also due to Qui-Gon’s training in diplomatic skills.

“You had your lunch yet? Let’s go grab a bite,” said Garen, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and the other around Anakin’s.

“Sure,” said Obi-Wan, smiling. If anyone noticed that his smile was half a millimetre too wide to be genuine, no one called him out on it. “By the way, I have something for you, Anakin.” He drew out a parcel tied in a cloth woven from coarse bantha fur that he kept stowed carefully away in his survival pack and handed it to Anakin, who took it reverently with both hands. The look on his face told Obi-Wan that the boy had somehow managed to sense what was inside the parcel despite not having opened it.

“How—?” Anakin’s voice trailed off as he unwrapped the parcel to reveal the dozen of small, hard buns bundled within.

“I met Shmi during my last mission. She wanted me to pass this to you,” said Obi-Wan.

Tears welled up in Anakin’s eyes and he blinked them away rapidly. His lips trembled.

“She’s doing fine,” Obi-Wan continued without waiting for him to ask. “When I met her, she was living on a moisture farm with someone by the name of Cliegg Lars and his son Owen. She seemed happy there.”

Anakin sniffed and looked at him suspiciously. “Watto would never sell my mum.” Having slaves was a sign of status on Tatooine.

“Ah, I heard that he was terribly mired in debt from betting and was in dire need of Wupiupi, so he really wasn’t in any position to say no when a moisture farmer showed up and offered trading him a Tobal Lens in exchange for Shmi.”

Anakin’s eyes widened. A Tobal Lens was a device that had one hundred percent efficiency in converting heat to light and was an essential component of needle ships. The price of one could easily feed and house all the slaves in Mos Eisley for a year.

“He traded a Tobal Lens for my mum?”

“That’s the official story.” The unofficial one was that Shmi had received it as a gift from an off-world friend and had kept it hidden for months, bidding her time waiting for the perfect opportunity to use it. She never mentioned who that ‘friend’ was and Obi-Wan knew better than to ask. “He freed her right after. Good for him, really. Now that the Republic is actually starting to pay attention to Tatooine, slave owners are going to get into some serious fire.”

Funny how the Senator who once spoke the loudest against granting more funds to the Coalition of Sentient Rights Activists was now the coalition’s staunchest supporter after her brief stint being captured by a group of pirates and being sold as a slave on Tatooine after her ship had broken down in space en-route to her home planet. It was a rather fortuitous accident as far as the slaves on Tatooine was concerned, but a nightmare for her staff, some of which will never quite recover completely from the trauma

Anakin recovered and beamed brightly up at him. He stuck out the buns at him. “Here, why don’t you have one?”

The gesture caught Obi-Wan off-guard.

“Don’t you want to keep them for yourself?” he asked carefully. The buns weren’t terribly big, and Obi-Wan could remember his own appetite when he was Anakin’s age. He could easily finish the entire stash in one sitting if no one was there to stop him.

Anakin looked scandalised. “What’s food for if not to be shared with friends? Besides, these tastes wizard. You’ll never find them anywhere on Coruscant. Here, Garen. You have one too.”

As Obi-Wan watched the boy passing a bun to Garen, he thought he was beginning to understand what attracted Qui-Gon to the boy.

 

* * *

 

 

Qui-Gon watched the Initiates spar with the training droids on the mezzanine floor, noting their fighting styles with interest. Some were reckless, charging at every opening, leaving their own flanks wide open; some were overly cautious, failing to press their advantage where they should. With training, Qui-Gon knew that each one had the potential to be great. The question was about finding the right person to take them on as padawans.

Dimly, he recalled standing here with Master Yoda years ago, watching Obi-Wan face off with Bruck Chun. He’d seen his aggressive stance and had assumed him to be yet another impulsive child filled with anger, prone to falling to the dark side. Time had proved to Qui-Gon that he had been wrong.

Qui-Gon wondered where Obi-Wan was. Somewhere in the Outer Rim, settling one planetary dispute or another, most likely. Just the way Qui-Gon had adopted a style completely different to that of his master’s upon knighthood, Obi-Wan had done pretty much done likewise. Where Qui-Gon frequently fell back on his instincts and resorted to unorthodox methods to get the job done, Obi-Wan was the kind of Jedi who delivered a stellar performance all while following the Code down to the last word. Truly, they couldn’t have been more different from each other if they’d tried.

It was fortunate that Obi-Wan was knighted when he did. Qui-Gon’s methods had never worked for him, just the way Dooku’s methods never worked for Qui-Gon. Retrospectively, Qui-Gon’s methods hadn’t worked for Xanatos, either. When it was three against one, it didn’t take much imagination to see who was the one at fault.

He started when the door opened and two other figures stepped onto the mezzanine floor.

“Mace. Chancellor.”

Both men returned his greeting. The Chancellor, as always, appeared to be completely at ease with his surroundings, while Mace looked uptight and displeased, as if he was unhappy to have an outsider observing the practise session of their younglings.

Qui-Gon shot Mace a questioning look over the Chancellor’s back. Mace gave him a grim look in return. Whatever his feelings on the matter, the fact remained that the Council could not deny the Chancellor of the Republic Senate something as simple as a tour of their Temple grounds.

Below them, the fight was over with the Jedi Training Droid disarming the Initiate. Anakin stood up and took his place in the training circle, feet apart, knees bent slightly, lightsaber held at ready.

“Begin,” called Anoon Boondara.

Anakin launched forward immediately, covering the distance between him and the droid in a flash, his footwork impeccable. His attacks were aggressive, yet not so wild that he left much of an opening for his opponent to take advantage of. He mixed his attacks with a flurry of parries, feints and strikes, switching hands to confuse his opponent, forcing his opponent into the defencive.

“I see that the boy has taken an interest in the lightsaber, Master Windu,” commented Palpatine.

“As always, Chancellor Palpatine, you are a master of understatement.”

An understatement indeed, Qui-Gon mused. Already, Anakin’s lightsaber skills could rival that of most senior Padawans and not a few junior Knights.

Then, as they watched, Qui-Gon saw Anakin make a small motion with his hand. Instantly, the droid was engulfed in a blue-tinged hologram. A chill ran down his spine as he recognised the horned head of Darth Maul.

“What is he doing?” Mace shot Qui-Gon a look.

“It wasn’t me,” he told Mace, tearing his eyes away from the fight reluctantly. “I don’t know how he—”

“Well, holograms of the Sith Lord is common enough that he could have found one anywhere,” said Palpatine. “Come now, my Jedi friends. A boy his age, altering a training droid this way simply to impress his teachers? It is most impressive.”

Qui-Gon watched as Anakin defeated the training droid easily and cut it through the torso, delivering the same fatal blow to it as Obi-Wan did on Naboo. It was impressive, but it also reeked of arrogance. He’d need to talk to Anakin about this later.

 _Actually, maybe not later_ , he thought, as Anakin got into a fight with his classmates. With a sigh, he vaulted over the handrail to intervene.

 

* * *

 

 

When Qui-Gon stepped into the shower room, he paused to see Obi-Wan stepping out of a cubicle, drying his hair with a towel. Both men froze, trapped in a small space with no means of escaping confrontation gracefully.

“Just finished training?” asked Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan shrugged. “Yes. You?”

“Nah. Just went a round or two with Anakin. Showed him some katas.”

Awkward silence. Qui-Gon racked his brain, trying to think of something more to say. Obi-Wan tossed the towel into the laundry bin and made to leave. Qui-Gon panicked, desperate not to let this rare opportunity to speak with Obi-Wan slip past.

“Have you been feeding Anakin stories about the Sith Lord on Naboo?” Qui-Gon blurted. He tacked on a chuckle at the end of his words to steer the conversation in a more lighthearted tone. “He modified one of the training droids to take on the appearance of the Sith Lord.”

Obi-Wan spun around to face him. “Actually, no, I haven’t been ‘feeding him stories’. He asked questions, and I answered, is all,” said Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon’s mouth snapped shut in an instant, all mirth gone. Somehow, he’d gone and said the wrong thing again. Could he never say anything right?

Obi-Wan scowled and left the room, letting the door slam shut behind him, leaving Qui-Gon to his brooding.

 

* * *

 

 

Obi-Wan could have kicked himself. What was he thinking, running away from the room like that? For all he knew, Qui-Gon had merely wanted to chat, and he’d gone and attacked the man in a moment of panic. Should he go back in and apologise?

He cringed at the thought. It sounded like a terrible idea. Then again, being a Jedi meant doing what was right, even if it was the difficult thing to do. He’d been running away for long enough as it was.

He took a deep breath and turned around — and ran straight into Chancellor Palpatine and Mace Windu.

“Ah, if it isn’t Knight Kenobi.” The chancellor smiled warmly at him. “It’s been a while since we met. How fare you?”

“I’m doing fine. Thank you for your concern, chancellor.”

“Would you care to join us? We’re just heading for tea.”

Obi-Wan swallowed. It was incredibly rude to refuse an invitation to tea.

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Chancellor,” Qui-Gon greeted with a bow.

Anakin gave a quick bow and resisted the urge to take a step closer to Qui-Gon, studying the chancellor warily. The man emitted warmth and comfort, instantly drawing Anakin to him the way Anakin was drawn to Qui-Gon when they first met on Tatooine, yet something about him felt off. Where Qui-Gon had always radiated a calm, steady presence in the Force, only a void existed where Palpatine’s Living Force should be, and Anakin had met enough people outside of the Jedi Order by now to know that it had nothing to do with him being non-Force sensitive.

“Master Qui-Gon, pray, I did not expect you to come along. I do believe I’d only requested for young Skywalker’s company,” said Palpatine, smiling brightly at Qui-Gon.

“Indeed. Yet I can hardly send him out of the Temple alone. The Jedi are committed to taking care of our own. This is no trouble,” said Qui-Gon. He took a step closer to Anakin and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Ah, it must be such a privilege to be able to travel around supervised. When I was a child, I used to have to travel around the city on my own because my own parents were too busy to watch over me all the time,” said Palpatine, nodding.

Anakin bristled at the insinuation that he needed adult supervision to travel around Coruscant. A gentle squeeze on his shoulder reminded him to guard his tongue, so he scowled at the floor instead.

“But not to worry. I can take care of him from here on,” Palpatine offered.

Qui-Gon looked down at him, unasked question in his eyes. Anakin felt torn. On one hand, he really didn’t like this strange politician that for all purposes been subtly swaying the action committee into voting against the Coalition of Sentient Rights Activists and he most certainly didn’t feel comfortably around him. Then again, he didn’t want to appear like a baby that needed constant coddling from a guardian.

It didn’t take long for him to make his decision. Qui-Gon read the answer in the determination in his eyes.

“Then I leave him in your care, chancellor,” said Qui-Gon graciously.

Palpatine smiled. “He will be in good hands, Master Qui-Gon.”

 

* * *

 

 

Anakin glanced around him. A large, neon light indicated that they were in sub-surface level 2685. As far as he knew, all levels below level 2000 were known for not caring much for personal identification, but this level in particular was exceptionally notorious for aggressively not caring about it and as a result, was filled with dens that were frequented by aristocrats and senators that wished to dabble in less-than-legal activities without having their identities revealed.

Case in point, he saw a Duros that he recognised as the bartender of one of the less frequented bars in the level across the street as he walked beside Palpatine. The bartender looked once at him with a bored expression, then at the man beside Anakin who was conspicuously not his usual travel companion, and turned away as if they’d never met their entire lives.

“Why are we here, chancellor? I’ve always heard that it isn’t safe this far down,” Anakin asked as they walked.

“Ah… You have heard. But have you been this far down, Anakin?” asked Palpatine.

Well, actually he’d been all the way down to sub-surface level 2893 with Qui-Gon and pretty much had his fill making rounds in illegal racing tracks, visited gambling dens that ranged from opulent to dilapidated, even got to know a few sentients that he’d rather not think too hard about what they did for a living. Still, he didn’t want the chancellor to think too badly of Qui-Gon. For some reason, people from planets like Coruscant had extremely fine sensibilities about adults exposing children to the knowledge of things such as gambling, prostitution, drugs and alcohol.

“Well, I would if I could. I like to explore. To see new places… But Jedi younglings aren’t allowed out of the temple unsupervised very often.”

Let him make what he would of that. It wasn’t like it was a lie. No, everything Anakin said was the truth. He just chose to omit mentioning some finer details, is all. Despite knowing that the chancellor wasn’t Force-sensitive, Anakin found himself rechecking his mental shields, making sure that he wasn’t unwittingly broadcasting his nervousness at lying. It wasn’t unheard of for non-Jedi to unwittingly pick up cues from the Force, and politicians were nothing if not well-versed in picking up subtle cues.

“Of course. Well, I visit the lower levels all the time. I feel that it is my duty. As rare as it is for Jedi younglings to come down here, I believe it is even more unusual for one of these people to make it to the surface. Do you know the rarest resource on Coruscant, my boy?”

A conversation that he’d had with Qui-Gon a year ago. His curiosity piqued. He wondered what the chancellor considered as the rarest resource.

“I’m… not sure.”

“Sky.”

Anakin fought not to let the surprise show on his face.

“Down here, the sun is a myth. My predecessor, the hapless Valorum, was happy to pretend these depths did not exist. But I cannot. It is the darkness that most requires the light. When my duties permit, I come to places like his. I disguise myself, just as we have done today and then, anonymously… I try to do some good.”

Anakin found himself warming up to the man at last. Perhaps he was wrong in suspecting the man after all. He cast a look at their surroundings and noted that they were travelling in a particularly roundabout manner through the level, cutting across back alleys only to double back on the main street and head in another direction. Either Palpatine was stalling for time, trying to lose a tail or attempting to confuse Anakin in the labyrinthine district. At length, they came to the entrance of one of the upper-scale casinos. The bouncer guarding the entrance gave them a disinterested glance and looked away as they passed-by, not bothering to stop them. That surprised Anakin. Experience told him that bouncers around these parts took their jobs seriously and never glanced away.

“Keep your hood up, Anakin. It would not do for either of us to be recognised in this place.”

He was still reeling from surprise when he answered. “Of course, Chancell— I mean, of course, sir.”

Palpatine steered them to a booth where they could observe the games without being overly conspicuous.

“Thank you for taking the time to accompany me today, Anakin. I know your Jedi training keeps you very busy.”

Anakin shrugged, non-committal. The truth was, all he was missing with this excursion was more meditation exercise, and he could do without those, no matter what Qui-Gon insisted. That man could survive on a diet of tea and meditation if one let him. Some days, Anakin thought he could understand why Obi-Wan had bolted at the first chance he got to get away from the man and not looked back — the variety of tea Qui-Gon enjoyed tasted like it was meant to poison rather than nourish and meditations were incredibly boring.

As soon as the thought emerged in his brain, he casted it out.

No, he would _never_ leave Qui-Gon or his mother like that.

“I must say, in some ways I envy you Jedi younglings. Training in the temple as you do— your entire life decided forever at such a young age. It must simplify things. You have no troubling choices to make, not like me— My entire life is difficult decisions!”

Those words churned up dark emotions that he’d since shoved into the closet in his mind where he kept things he’d rather not think about. The truth was, that was the one aspect about being a Jedi that had bothered him. When he had first met Qui-Gon on Tatooine, he’d been a little boy swept away by grand promises of greatness and adventures. Sure, Qui-Gon had warned him that the life of a Jedi would be difficult, but he had been a slave. His was a life where he was considered to be lucky to be owned by a Toydarian that only beat him up some times compared to being owned by Hutts who would kill you simply if it fits their fancy. Lucky to only be beaten. Fancy that. He’d never had any real agency back then. It was the Jedi or remain a slave.

But now, he saw that being a Jedi really wasn’t that different from being a slave. From dawn to dusk, his every action was dictated to him. Literally, he had something called a timetable handed to him telling him what to do at a precise time of the day on a datapad. Meditation first in the morning, then breakfast, followed by classes on subjects that were dished out to him as a matter-of-fact without anyone ever once asking him if he actually wanted to learn about that particular subject. Meal times were fixed, he had to eat his food in a specific place, he wasn’t allowed access to certain places… He wasn’t allowed to go back to visit his mother, wasn’t even permitted to comm her. Sure, it wasn’t like his mother had a comlink, but the fact remained that even if she had, he wouldn’t have been allowed to keep in touch with her at all.

It was true that he’d liked helping people, but that didn’t mean he liked helping people at the cost of losing himself, his own identity. He was Anakin Skywalker first, Jedi second, but it seemed to him that the Temple was intent on making him Jedi first. His identity wasn’t something Anakin was ready to let go of so easily. He remembered telling Padmé that he was a person and that his name was Anakin Skywalker. How much pride he’d taken in being able to proclaim as much, how much joy.

Still, he couldn’t tell any of these to Palpatine. Palpatine wasn’t a Jedi, and to complain to him about the Jedi felt too much like betrayal.

“Yes. It’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” he muttered.

Palpatine beamed at him, like at father immensely pleased for his son’s good fortune. It hurt doubly being unable to say anything to him, knowing that Palpatine was perhaps the one person who would actually understand his problems.

“Just look at this place. _Anything_ can be procured here. Absolutely anything. Lives are bought and sold in this club every single day. It’s revolting.”

Despite himself, Anakin flinched. It wasn’t that he didn’t know this. He just didn’t think he would ever be truly comfortable with slavery. Despite the COSRA’s best intentions, some criminal rings hadn’t been fully cracked down.

Palpatine noticed the flinch. “Oh, I am so sorry. I should never have mentioned… That is to say, I know where you come from, Anakin, and I hope I did not raise old wounds by mentioning slavery.”

“It’s… It’s fine, Chancellor. I don’t even think about it that much anymore,” he lied. The lie came easily to him. It was, after all, something he’d had to repeat to the others in the Jedi Temple every other day. Every time he ran into someone new, it was a guarantee that they would bring up his past as a slave and asked him how he felt about it. What did they expect him to tell them anyway? If he’d said the truth, that he’d hated it, he would be reprimanded and told to meditate on it. Meditation just didn’t solve anything. He didn’t know why the Jedi just refused to see it. So instead, he’d chosen the easy way out and lied about it, and people had left him alone.

“Now, you and I _both_ know that isn’t true.”

Anakin couldn’t respond to that. Couldn’t bring himself to lie about it. It was the way Palpatine said it, his voice filled with compassion and empathy, like he really understood what Anakin was going through. It made Anakin realise that he could tell Palpatine that he was angry and for once, he’d have someone respond with compassion and understanding rather than reprimand for being unable to let go of his anger.

“I don’t understand. If this place is so awful, why doesn’t the Senate do anything something about it? Something more. Don’t just rely on COSRA to do everything.”

“The bureaucrats? Please, my young friend. This place is _full_ of senators,” said Palpatine. He gestured with one hand at an alien playing a game of dice at a table next to them. “Colandrus, Senator of the Suntilla System. Powerful. Reprehensible. Treats the Senate as his personal bank— He makes withdrawals from every planet within his influence, trading favours for credits. I know that it happens— Many do— But he is so careful. Only small amounts in each transaction. Difficult to prove. But worst of all… It works. He is one of the most influential members of the senate. And that influence…” Palpatine watched as he won another round and sighed. “… Is for sale.” He watched for a moment longer and mused, “I wish the chance cubes would turn against him. Colandrus is an addict, a slave to his impulses. He would keep rolling in an effort to make up his losses. And if his losses were large enough, his greed would end him. He would seek ever lager bribes… It would leave a trail. My agents would finally be able to prove his corruption. We could remove him. Return justice to the Senate. But alas, I fear that is just a fantasy.”

As they watched, a new round of game started. The Senator placed his bet and took the dice. “Come on, now… show me something!”

He casted the dice. It was a split second of decision for Anakin. He could turn the dice with the Force, make him lose and grant Palpatine the chance to remove him from office, or allow chance to rule the game and risk him winning big and remaining in office indefinitely. Unbidden, the memory of Qui-Gon telling him about consequences of actions came to the forefront of his mind. Anakin shoved it aside and acted.

A round of disappointed murmurs rose around the table.

“I’m sorry, Senator… This wasn’t your roll,” said the dealer.

Anakin was frozen in his seat, mind reeling in shock and surprise at what he’d just done. It had been the right thing to do. He was certain of it. But if it was right, why did he feel so empty? As he watched the Senator turn away in dejection, he didn’t feel the rush of thrill that he thought he’d feel. Rather, he felt guilt. Guilt that he’d gone against Qui-Gon and done something reckless. Qui-Gon wasn’t exactly above all the ridiculous Jedi believes, but he was the best, and he was like a father to Anakin. Disobeying him felt wrong.

But didn’t Qui-Gon himself say that sometimes they needed to act based on the Will of the Force or something like that? Surely the Force would not want this Senator to remain in office?

The Force swirled around him, dark and murky. In the Temple, it’d always flowed easily, like treated water emerging like magic from the faucets; here, it churned and sputtered like a faulty moisture vaporator choked full of sand. It terrified and confused him. Never before had he been so cut off from the Force.

The sound of the chancellor breaking out into a loud, hearty laugh jolted him out of his stupor. He blinked, feeling like a lost soul pushing through a thick fog, seeing yet not comprehending what was happening before him. The Force roiled.

The pealing laughter quickly attracted the attention of others.

“What, exactly, do you think is so funny?” demanded the Senator, marching up to their table with his human bodyguard in tow.

Palpatine shook his head, still recovering from his laugh.

“The Senator just asked you a question!” roared his human bodyguard.

In the face of imminent danger, reflexes honed from years of training took over. Immediately, Anakin reached for his lightsaber, prepared to defend the Chancellor as was his duty as Jedi.

“No, Anakin. Not here,” said Palpatine, waving a hand at him to stop him. He turned to face the Senator and his bodyguard. “My son told me a joke. I laughed. Nothing mre. Now, if you will release me, we are done here. Actually, we were just about to leave.”

“See that you do,” sneered the Senator.

Palpatine tossed a credit on the table to pay for their drinks and motioned for Anakin to follow him. Together, they left. Anakin employed the trick Qui-Gon showed him to observe without looking, doing a quick sweep of the other patrons in the casino. Nobody spared them a single glance, each one too engrossed in their own game and drink to care for a minor commotion that was likely a daily occurrence. Still, this level of inattention unnerved Anakin. Normally, the bouncers at least would be on alert, awaiting for trouble. Yet here, there was nothing. It was as if they didn’t exist. Dimly, Anakin recalled Palpatine’s strange absence in the Force. Was that the reason the others were not paying attention to him? He felt disturbed, and was disturbed to be feeling disturbed. In the short time they’d been together, he’d come to like Palpatine. Had come to consider him an unlikely friend, even. He didn’t like having to doubt his friends.

“May I ask you a question, Anakin?” asked Palpatine once they were outside.

“Of course, Chancellor. Anything.”

“Your Jedi abilities allow you to move objects through the Force, do they not?”

“Yes. Actually, I’m very good at it. Better than any of the other padawans my age… And most of the older ones too.”

Palpatine smiled. “I was counting on you to say that. You see, I have a proposal, Anakin.”

Anakin thought he knew what sort of proposal Palpatine was suggesting. He just wasn’t sure if he should agree to it. Something about the entire situation didn’t feel right. He wanted desperately to agree with Palpatine, yes, but something held him back. It was the same voice that warned him not to press an advantage during his podraces, the voice that always kept him safe, the voice that he’d since been taught was the Force. If it told him not to do it, there must be a reason for it.

He thought about Palpatine’s claims at doing good anonymously. So far, he hadn’t seen the man actually do anything except enter a casino, laughed at a Senator’s plight and nearly gave his own cover away. Something about the entire situation felt terribly staged. One didn’t maintain one’s cover for long by being so careless. Either he was lying about how frequently he visited the lower levels, or he was lying about keeping his identity secret. Now that he was thinking about it, why did he need to be anonymous anyway? Wouldn’t more funds be channelled into helping the people at the sub-surface levels if he’d used his powers as Senator to bring the media’s attention to the lower levels?

“Anakin?”

Anakin blinked, realising with a start that he’d been so caught up in his thoughts, he hadn’t heard a word Palpatine said.

“I apologise. Of course, you wouldn’t feel comfortable using your Jedi powers in such a way, even if it is to help other…”

Anakin recognised the tactic being employed from his handful of sessions attending Senatorial meetings with Qui-Gon. Guilt-tripping had been the word Qui-Gon used to describe it. He’d seen it employed mercilessly by Senator Syndian as she talked the Senate into voting against COSRA. Anakin bristled. Did Palpatine think him a child that he would fall for something like this this easily?

“No, that’s not it, Chancellor. I was just thinking about what you said earlier about the sky. Me, when I was on Tatooine, I used to be a pilot,” said Anakin. Diversion. Don’t commit to an answer until he had time to think it through carefully. They’d left the casino for tonight. It wasn’t like he needed to decide things now. “It was all I’d ever wanted to be. Did you know that the Jedi Service Corps once had a pilot branch? It was called the Starfighter Corps. Garen was in it. But the program was cancelled by Valorum because he was pressured by the Senate, which was afraid of the idea of the Jedi having pilots of our own.” There. Apply just the right amount of pressure to suggest that if Palpatine was indeed a better man than Valorum, he would agree to the Starfighter Corps.

Anakin didn’t miss the sharp glint in Palpatine’s eyes. The other man knew the game he was playing. He also knew that Anakin had caught on to the game he was playing. He felt a lance of fear shoot through his heart. For the first time in his life, he was actually afraid that he might die.

“I can’t say they’re completely wrong, though,” said Anakin quickly, backpedaling, feigning an air of innocence. He was good at pretending to be more oblivious than he really was. Back on Tatooine, the space traders passing-by were less likely to give him trouble if they thought he was nothing but a naive child. “The Jedi’s supposed to be committed to peace. Why bother with armed transports like starfighters?”

Palpatine was eyeing him speculatively, trying to gauge if he was truly as childish as he was letting on, or if he was playing at some deeper game.

“Well, it’s one thing to be a pacifist, another thing to be a complete idiot and sit by idly while the others killed you,” said Palpatine.

Now, it was Anakin’s turn to second guess himself. The way Palpatine said it, he sounded completely open and sincere. What if Anakin had been wrong about the man’s character after all? It was all so confusing. He needed guidance, he realised with a start. Someone to tell him how to tell right from wrong. The Force was trying to tell him something, but its words were incorrigible, blanketed out by static. He needed to think.

 

* * *

 

 

“How was your day out with the chancellor?” asked Qui-Gon.

Anakin shrugged. “It was alright, I guess. We went for a little walk, had a little chat about this and that.”

Qui-Gon hummed and said nothing else. Did not ask him about where they’d gone or what they talked about. He stole a glance at the man. If it was his mother, she would have asked. Wanted to know if he’d been out mixing with the wrong sorts or getting into trouble. On one hand, he felt relieved at not needing to lie but on the other, he felt vaguely disappointed, like the Jedi didn’t care enough to want to know.

“Don’t you want to know what we did?” he asked.

Qui-Gon turned to face him. “If you wanted to tell me, you would have done it on your own accord the moment I brought the topic up; if you didn’t, you’ll only lie about it. Since you haven’t spoken of it yet, I’m going to assume that there are some things that you wish to work out in the privacy of your own mind before you’re ready to share it with anyone else. Is that not the case?”

Anakin shrugged. “It is. Yes… I guess.” He frowned. “Qui-Gon, if there’s something you can do bring an evil person to justice, but doing it feels wrong, will you do it?”

“That depends,” said Qui-Gon. “When you say it feels wrong, how do you mean? Does it feel wrong because you will be betraying a friend to do it? Or because you need to break a law yourself in order to do it?”

“More like… I don’t know. It feels wrong, even though up here I know it’s the right thing to do.” Anakin tapped a finger at his temple.

“Like the Force is telling you it’s the wrong thing to do?”

Anakin scrunched his nose. “Something like that.”

Qui-Gon was silent for a while, considering. “Some times, it can be hard to understand the will of the Force. Often, it may seem like doing one thing was the perfect solution to a problem and yet the Force is directing us elsewhere. All I can say is, experience told me that the Force is rarely wrong and it always pays to heed it over personal interests.” Qui-Gon shot Anakin a look. “If this has to do with a request from the chancellor, I wouldn’t worry too much about it if I were you. If the chancellor requires Jedi assistance, he has but to send in a request to the Council. The Order does, in effect, answer to the Chancellor after all. There’s no need to try to take the entire burden upon your own shoulders.”

Anakin mulled over this. He doubted Palpatine would ask the Jedi to help interfere with a gamble. Illegal was illegal.

“You look like you’ll benefit from a little distraction,” Qui-Gon commented, studying him. “I have a friend who has a diner around these parts. What say you we go and pay him a little visit?”

Anakin wasn’t really in the mood, but he was also sure that Qui-Gon’s friend would have something broken for him to fix as they always did, so he shrugged and said, “Sure.”


	5. The innocence of a child | The wisdom of a philosopher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I apologise for the previous two completely unnecessary chapters. Retrospectively, I have no idea why I decided it was a good idea to add in two chapters just because I can, but removed so many Qui-Gon & Obi-Wan encounters just because it didn't fit into the flow of the plot. Hah! The entire chapter didn't fit anyway *facepalm* Anyway, we're finally back on track, so yay, I guess?

Obi-Wan allowed himself to unwind as the sight of the hangar of the Jedi Temple came into view. A few months ago, the Supreme Chancellor had granted the Jedi the funds necessary to build a hangar into the side of the Jedi Temple and acquire a handful of starships for missions to Outer Rim worlds that sat way outside the usual hyperspace lanes. It wasn’t exactly a revival of the Starfighter Corps, but that they got any funds at all was a miracle in itself. How the Council had managed to convince the Chancellor to such an undertaking, he’d never know, but it certainly made things a whole lot easier to be able to have their own transportation when they got dispatched to some backwater planet that few pilots every visited, if ever.

Traffic Control cleared him for landing, and he carefully manoeuvred the shuttle into the assigned docking bay.

“Obi-Wan!”

A loud shout greeted him as soon as he was out of the narrow confines of the cockpit. Obi-Wan turned to see Garen hurrying over to him. He broke out into a smile.

“Knight Muln, it’s great to see you!”

Garen opened his arms for a hug, but turned to wrangle Obi-Wan’s neck at the last minute, screwing the top of his head with the knuckle of his other hand. “You scoundrel, you. You missed my Knighting Ceremony! Even Reeft managed to make it back in time!”

“Hey, I should be the one annoyed. You didn’t wait for me!” he protested, laughing. “Besides, you have Padawan Eerin and Padawan Reeft to celebrate with you, didn’t you?”

“Don’t rub it in, Obi-Wan. We won’t be padawans forever. Next thing you know, we’ll be masters and you’ll still be stuck as a knight,” said Bant’s voice as she walked up to them.

“Huh. Doubt that.”

“Garen, do us all a favour and stick some holes in his hyperinflated ego, will you? He seem fit to burst at any time.”

“Hey!”

Garen laughed and gave him another shake before letting him go.

“How have you been, you crazy man? If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought that you’ve decided to play watchman on some far away planet. I barely see you around the Temple these days.”

The smile on Obi-Wan’s face became more strained at that. His long absences didn’t happen by chance. Obi-Wan had been doing his best to keep away from the Jedi Temple, jumping from one mission to another without respite. It was childish, he knew, but the idea of running into his former master filled him with dread. He wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but somehow, the chasm between them had grown so wide that it would take a jump into hyperspace to breach the gap. Which was stupid, really. They’d had worse arguments in the past that hadn’t stop them from working together seamlessly as a team. Or perhaps it was simply because they hadn’t had a choice back then, tied together as they were as master and padawan.

“You can lecture me about being a ghost once your own missions start coming in. The Jedi Order is terribly understaffed.”

“Understatement of the century,” said Bant with a snort.

Obi-Wan grinned by way of response. He looked around, half-expecting to see someone else. “Where’s Anakin? I could have sworn he’s a permanent fixture here in the hangar.”

His friendship with Anakin had come as a surprise to him. For the longest time, the two had dodged around each other. Obi-Wan had felt awkward being around the boy his former master had abandoned him for whereas Anakin had resented him his rejection. Things got a little better after he delivered Shmi’s little gift to Anakin but they didn’t exactly progress past the simple greeting upon meeting each other. Then, Yoda had assigned him to teach a class of Initiates some lightsaber katas and Anakin just had to be in that class. The next thing he knew, they had fallen into an easy friendship, which was just as well. Anakin was almost always within the vicinity of the hangar during Obi-Wan’s numerous departures and arrivals. It would have made things awkward if they didn’t get along. It wasn’t as if they were good friends, but they weren’t in the habit of avoiding each other either.

“Oh, you’ll find him in his room. He’s grounded for having short-circuited his tenth training lightsaber,” said Garen with a laugh. “Will you believe it? He was here with me in the morning, and then afternoon classes came and wham, he’s grounded. Kid’s too hyperactive for his own good.”

“His tenth?!” Obi-Wan whistled. “Maybe I should go see this legend.”

 

* * *

 

 

Anakin was sitting on the floor of his room when Obi-Wan visited him, fiddling with a model of a TIE fighter.

“So, I heard you broke my record of shorting out the highest number of lightsabers,” said Obi-Wan.

Anakin’s face lit up and he bounded over to where Obi-Wan stood at the door.

“Obi-Wan! You’re back!”

Obi-Wan grinned. “Missed me?”

“As if I would.” Anakin made a face at him, an act that was ruined by the fact that he was clinging around Obi-Wan like a third limb. Obi-Wan laughed and turned his attention back to the discarded TIE fighter model.

“I used to have something like this back when I was a kid,” said Obi-Wan.

“Oh. Er…”

The guilt in the air was almost palpable. Obi-Wan shifted his eyes to look at Anakin questioningly.

“I’m sorry. About them.”

Obi-Wan frowned and tilted his head curiously. “Them?”

“The Verpine fighters. I found them in Qui-Gon’s room three years ago and thought he hadn’t wanted them anymore, so I took them apart and reconstructed it into a tracking probe droid.”

It took a while for that piece of information to click. Dimly, he remembered the three Verpine fighters that he’d built back during his Initiate days. He’d set them to autopilot to circle the ceiling of his room. He had left them behind when he packed to leave for Bandomeer, though his creche master, Docent Van had apparently kept them aside and returned them to him upon his return from Melida/Daan. Of course, he had more pressing concerns on his mind then and had simply discarded them to a side. Qui-Gon must have salvaged them from the durabin and kept them for him.

“Actually, that’s alright. It’s not like I still play with them,” Obi-Wan assured him. Curiously, he asked, “Can I see?”

Anakin beamed, obviously more than delighted at being able to show off his handiwork to someone else. He stuck thumb and forefinger into his mouth and blew, emitting a loud whistling sound. A large triangular shaped thing emerged from under Anakin’s bed and shot over to them, banging straight into the side of the boy’s head.

“Ow!”

The boy rubbed the back of his head and grimaced. “It always does that!”

“Ah, I think I might know why.” He extended a hand. “May I?”

Anakin was in the midst of wrangling with the rebellious droid that to all appearances was single-mindedly focused on banging into the nearest surface. With a frustrated growl, Anakin powered it down before handing the droid over. After a second, he hauled a box of tools out from under his bed as well and offered Obi-Wan a powered screwdriver. Obi-Wan’s brows rose at the sight of the stash, wondering where he’d managed to acquire all that, but decided that he didn’t want to know. If he didn’t know they were obtained illegally, he was not under any obligations to report the matter to the creche master.

Carefully, Obi-Wan unscrewed the metal chassis to reveal the internal wiring. He identified the intergrated circuit in short order and squinted at the figures engraved on the side.

“When I was an Initiate, there used to be another boy who’d sneak into my room and… let’s just say he’ll do whatever it takes to get me into trouble. So I had one of the fighters programmed to attack any mobile object that isn’t me.”

He grabbed a needle-nose pliers and jabbed at a strand of wire that was semi-transparent with a tinge of amber. It was close enough in appearance to the other gold threads to not stand out unless one knew specifically what one was looking for.

“Synthetic kyber crystals. The sort that Initiates use for building training lightsabers. I imbued it with my Force signature so that it recognises me as the maker without needing to code it into the program. Makes things a lot harder to alter.”

Anakin’s eyes were round with wonder. “Wizard,” he breathed.

Obi-Wan chuckled. “Jedi can do much more than wave glowing sticks around and make things fly. We just don’t advertise it much.” He regarded Anakin. “There’s a class on engineering, you know.” Technically it was a course for the senior padawans, but given Anakin’s aptitude for building things, Obi-Wan wouldn’t be surprised if he came out at the top of the class.

“Really? I can sign up for it?”

“I’ll talk to your creche master about it,” he replied.

He didn’t miss the way the smile on Anakin’s face was replaced by a dark glower. Obi-Wan frowned. What did he say? It took him a moment to remember Anakin’s revulsion for the word ‘master’.

“I don’t like him. Not even Watto had so much power over me,” Anakin muttered.

Sometimes, it was easy to forget in the light of Watto’s less-than reputable dealings that he was really kind to his slaves as far as slave owners went. From what Obi-Wan heard, Anakin and his mother were afforded accommodations with their own bedrooms on Tatooine, and Anakin had so much freedom, he was able to build a massive pod racer and a protocol droid without it being discovered — a feat that spoke of free time, personal space that was seldom interfered with and a living condition comfortable enough that they didn’t have to sell off the first valuable thing that came their way for food. It didn’t make Watto a good man, but it meant Anakin would be less appreciative of the ‘freedom’ that came with being a Jedi.

“Well, Watto could give you a beating and get away with it. If Master Ali tried to lay a finger on you, you could report it and he’ll be taken away in a heartbeat,” said Obi-Wan.

He wasn’t sure how much Anakin would relate. When he’d seen he boy, Anakin hadn’t been sporting any severe bruises save for some minor scrapes that came from tinkering with his pod and falling on the coarse sand during his flight from the Sith Lord, which told him that Watto was the sort of owner who used scolding as punishment over beating. Not that Obi-Wan had any illusions about Watto having done that out of any form of altruism. More likely than not, it was simply because he didn’t want to damage the his slaves because he couldn’t afford to buy more. Obi-Wan knew that the boy used to be owned by Gardulla the Hutt, who was rumoured to be a far worse slave owner, prone to killing her slaves in fits of rage that had nothing to do with the slave that was killed, but he was so young when he was handed over to Watto that it was unlikely he’d remember the living condition there.

“But I still have to call him master.”

“Really, it’s just another a form of respect over here. A Jedi Master doesn’t own you. Not in that way. It’s more like… You calling your mother ‘mum’ rather than by her name. That’d be rude, wouldn’t it?”

Anakin stabbed at a rusty calcinator, thinking hard. “It’s different.”

It wasn’t, really, but there was no arguing with him when he was being defencive like that. Obi-Wan decided to back off and steer the conversation to safer waters.

“What did Garen show you this morning?”

At that, Anakin perked up. “He showed me the starfighter he’s planning to build! He promised to let me fly it if I passed my Initiate Trials.”

What with his obsession with piloting, it was no wonder he got along so well with Master Clee Rhara and Garen. They shared the same love for anything that would take them as far away from solid ground as possible. Obi-Wan, on the other hand, would very much prefer remaining on solid ground.

“Clee’s really nice, but I don’t want to be her apprentice. It doesn’t feel right,” said Anakin, changing the topic all of a sudden, returning to a sour mood. He looked at Obi-Wan imploringly, as if waiting for him to offer to do… something. Except Obi-Wan didn’t know what.

“Did she offer to take you on as her padawan learner?” Obi-Wan asked carefully.

“No. But I can tell Qui-Gon’s hoping she would. I’m not stupid, you know. I know he’s getting me to meet all the other Jedi because he’s trying to see if there’s anyone who’ll get along well enough with me.”

That information got his head reeling.

“Isn’t he taking you on as padawan learner?”

Anakin’s sullen silence was answer enough. Obi-Wan wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the newfound knowledge. Indignant? Upset? Qui-Gon’s refusal to take Anakin as padawan rang too close to home for Obi-Wan to not get upset about it.

“He can be such a stubborn idiot,” Obi-Wan muttered.

Anakin shrugged. “It doesn’t feel right either, though. Me being his padawan. I just… I don’t know.” He shrugged again, uncertain how to express himself. “I really want him to, but it's like the Force is telling me it's not right. Do you get what I mean?”

Obi-Wan thought he could relate. The will of the Force could be really confusing.

“You should talk to Qui-Gon some times, you know,” said Anakin suddenly, changing the direction of the conversation again. “He misses you terribly. He never says it, but I can tell. He always gets this look on his face whenever he sees you passing-by in the distance.” The boy screwed up his face into a semblance of a wrinkled mess.

Obi-Wan wasn’t quite sure what sort of expression he was trying to simulate, but the downward turn of his lips was pretty self-explanatory.

He felt his heart skip a beat. Was it possible that Qui-Gon actually wanted to talk to him? He studied Anakin. The boy had no reason to lie about such things.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Now, Anakin was smiling. “Really? Wizard!”

 

* * *

 

 

How did one initiate a conversation with one’s former master that one had not been on speaking terms with for over three years? Obi-Wan mulled over the conundrum from where he sat at the corner of the refractory. An hour ago, he’d just received a briefing from the High Council about his next mission. It was an undercover operation to retrieve evidence of wrongdoing by the Five Great Hutt Houses. If that in itself didn’t sound dangerous enough, they’d decided to pair him with Quinlan Walking-Disaster Vos. It was a mission doomed to go south before it even started, Obi-Wan was sure of it. Still, that sounded easy in comparison with having to talk with his former master. What did he say? Apologise? Crack a joke? Invite the man to tea and sit in awkward silence as the tea turn from burnt over-brewed tea to cold over-brewed tea?

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the tall figure of Qui-Gon entering the refractory. Anakin was bouncing along at his heels like an excitable puppy, darting in circles around the man as he regaled some wild tale. Really, if one didn’t know better, one would have thought the two were master and padawan, given how much they orbited around each other. As he watched, Qui-Gon barked out a laugh at something Anakin said — an expression of emotion far more unguarded than he’d ever been when he was with Obi-Wan.

Stop it. This isn’t about you. Stop acting like some jealous ten-year-old.

Before he could school his expression into something more neutral, Anakin turned and caught sight of him.

“Obi-Wan!” he hollered across the hall, waving one arm.

Eyes turned to look first at Anakin, then at him. Obi-Wan gulped, feeling like he was caught in the spotlight. Slowly, stiffly, he stood and walked over to the duo. It didn’t escape his notice the way Qui-Gon’s face immediately closed off as soon as he laid his eyes upon his former padawan, shields slamming down in place. Obi-Wan hesitated, slowing to a stop some twenty-steps away.

“Fancy seeing you here!” said Anakin, running forward to breach the gap between them. He wound one of Obi-Wan’s arm around himself and dragged Obi-Wan back to Qui-Gon. “Obi-Wan showed me why my little probe droid was always malfunctioning!”

The smile on Qui-Gon’s face was forced. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh. It’s ridiculously simple, really. Just a modified wir— Ferus!” Anakin waved an arm at someone in the distance and bounded off, leaving Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan to stand alone with each other in awkward silence.

Obi-Wan swallowed. That was a pretty blatant attempt at forcing them to talk.

“The boy could use you teaching him more subtlety,” said Obi-Wan after a while, breaking the silence first.

The expression on Qui-Gon’s face was more wistful than defencive as Obi-Wan had expected it to be.

“I can impart knowledge without being the boy’s master, you know,” said Qui-Gon. “I’m really too old to be taking on another padawan.”

Trust Qui-Gon to pick up on the subtext. But what was truly startling was his decision to address it head on rather than reply to it in some roundabout manner. Well, if Qui-Gon was going to deal with things the straight-forward way, Obi-Wan was up to the game.

“What if you aren’t? Force, Qui-Gon. This isn’t about you. Do you even care about how Anakin feels about all this? He just told me himself the other day that he knows you’re trying to foist him off to someone else.”

Rather than argue back as Qui-Gon no doubt would years ago when they were still master and apprentice, the Jedi Master now merely sighed.

“Did he now? I suppose it can’t be helped. He is such a perceptive child.” He shook his head. “If it makes you feel better, Yoda agrees with my decision. ‘Too old to take on another apprentice, you are. Someone younger, young Skywalker needs. More energy to chase after him, when into trouble, he gets.’”

It was actually a pretty good impersonation. Obi-Wan had to bite the insides of his cheek not to laugh out loud. A thought struck him.

“Wait, since when did you just accept the orders of the Council as it came?”

“Come now. Don’t make it sound like I enjoy disobeying the Council just for the heck of it.”

Qui-Gon folded his hands into his sleeves and began making his way towards the drinks station. That was a bad sign. Hands in his sleeves usually meant Qui-Gon was going to be stubborn about the matter. After a moment’s hesitation, Obi-Wan fell in beside him, racking his brain for something to say. He turned up with blanks. A strained silence developed between the two of them. This was where he'd normally bolt. Except Obi-Wan was really tired of bolting at the first sight of Qui-Gon. They'd once been such a great team together. Why can't they go back to being like that?

Obi-Wan rose his eyebrows when Qui-Gon picked out a tall glass and filled it with water.

“No tea?” he asked, carefully keeping the tone of his voice light and casual. In truth, something about the sight of Qui-Gon eschewing tea for plain water rang all sorts of alarms in his head. It had seemed to him at times that Qui-Gon inhaled more tea daily than a Mon Calamari did water. Something was definitely wrong if he stopped drinking tea.

The corners of Qui-Gon’s eyes tightened and one corner of his lip curled upwards in a rueful smile. “I haven’t had tea for a while now. Doesn’t agree with me these days.”

Going by Qui-Gon’s standards, ‘a while’ translated into him having stopped for years. Obi-Wan studied his former master, keeping his face impassive. There was a story there, that’s for sure. But what? He felt a pang of ache inside his chest. What kind of man was he, that he’d distanced himself from the man who’d been like a father to him so much so that he hadn’t even noticed details such as these?

Dimly, he recalled Anakin’s grave expression as he urged Obi-Wan to talk to Qui-Gon.

“We should talk,” said Qui-Gon before Obi-Wan could summon the courage to give voice to the same words.

He gaped at the Jedi Master, momentarily at loss for words. Before he could collect himself, Obi-Wan’s comlink pulsed, the indicator light flashing red.

“Excuse me.” Obi-Wan retreated to a side and answered the comm. “Kenobi.”

“Kenobi, where the kriff are you? Transportation leaves in ten. Get your ass here right this second!” a tinny voice that was all too easily recognisable as Quinlan’s shrilled over the speaker of the communications device.

“I’ll be on my way,” said Obi-Wan. He turned to look at Qui-Gon, working up an apology in his head. The Jedi Master merely smiled and made a shooing gesture towards him.

“Go on. Duty calls,” said Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan found himself staring. Qui-Gon’s sleeve had slipped halfway up his forearm at the motion, exposing translucent skin hanging loosely upon bones. Now that he was actually looking, he noticed that Qui-Gon’s cheeks were sunken, his hair more silver than gray, his robes hanging loosely on his frame. All of a sudden, he found himself being reminded of how old his former master was. Sure, sixty-three standard was hardly an ancient by human standards, but seeing Qui-Gon so frail reminded him with a start the fact of his mortality.

He felt a sudden insane urge to hug Qui-Gon. Kark Quinlan, kark the mission. He needed to be reconciled with his former master here and now when he still can, not keep putting it off for months and months hoping for the next time. One day, there won’t be a next time.

Or rather, that was what Obi-Wan would have done years ago, back when he was still an impulsive young boy. Now, he was a Knight with all the responsibilities that entailed. He could hardly justify jeopardising the lives of thousands of sentients just because he was being sentimental.

At least, according to Anakin, the Council had stopped sending Qui-Gon on high-risk missions off-world. The odds of him being killed during a mission was actually significantly higher than that of his former master dying of old age.

So instead, he gave Qui-Gon a grim smile. “We’ll talk once this whole thing’s over.”

The smile that Qui-Gon returned, though small, seemed to Obi-Wan to be bright enough to light up entire star systems. “I’ll wait for you to come back.”

Obi-Wan turned immediately and hurried away, not trusting himself to break down and cry if he lingered for a second longer.

 

* * *

 

 

Qui-Gon watched as Obi-Wan bolted away, as if relieved for the excuse to be rid of his former master. He could have kicked himself. Things were going so well. Why did he have to open his mouth and ruin things by taking things faster than was appropriate? Why can’t he just give the young man some space?

Truthfully, the greatest mystery to him is why, of all attributes, patience was the one most frequently assigned to him.

He shook his head and smiled wryly at himself as he made his way to a vacant table. A loud roaring sound filled his head, building up in intensity rapidly like a jump into hyperspace. He barely had time to register what that meant when the world went dark before his eyes.


	6. Final days | Time left to do something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters within 24 hours! To be fair, when I first wrote this fic, it was intended to be a one-shot presented as Qui-Gon's POV interspersed with flashbacks, but things got out of hand when I ended up with more flashback sequences than 'current' timeline, so I ended up splitting it up into chapters. In other words, this is actually the first chapter that I wrote in this fic, so all I needed to do was to make sure it didn't contradict too much with the earlier chapters (there are still plenty of contradictions, I'm aware. This is where I remind you to leave your brains behind. If contradictions arise, take whatever happen here as 'canon' to this fic and ignore the earlier stuff)

_“I hear your words, yet I do not feel them.”_  
~ Didi Oddo, Jedi Apprentice #11: The Deadly Hunter by Jude Watson

* * *

 

“The disease is progressing much faster than I’d expected,” said Vokara.

Qui-Gon bobbed his head as he sucked on the ice chips one of the healers had kindly brought in for him. His throat felt parched, all moisture in him burnt off by the infernal heat of the fever that consumed him. When he’d first woken up in the Healing Halls, he’d been so thirsty that he’d tried to gulp down the first glass of water he saw. Except his stomach was having none of it and regurgitated everything onto the floor, much to his dismay. Which was how he got reduced to sucking on ice chips for moisture. And even in this aspect, he couldn’t overdo it or he’ll be throwing up again.

“So this is it, then? The third stage of the disease?” he rasped in what he hoped was a lighthearted, joking manner. He hadn’t quite forgotten what Vokara had said to him three years ago — once the third stage set in, the fever will just keep going up and up until the host died from overheating. “How long do you reckon I’ll have?”

Vokara didn’t reply immediately. Qui-Gon knew from experience that the length of her silence was inversely proportional to the survival rate of her patients. An immediate response meant a good chance at full recovery. Five seconds meant she was about to deliver dire news. This time, she was silent for ten full seconds. “Six standard days. There was an entry in the Republican Journal of Medicine reporting a case of someone having lived up to three weeks, but that particular report was mired in rumours of healers falsifying data and the likes.”

It was just as well that Qui-Gon was a trained diplomat, or he wouldn’t have been able to keep the shock from showing on his face.

Six standard days? There was no way Obi-Wan would be back within six standard days. Not when it was a paired mission. The Jedi were stretched incredibly thin throughout the galaxy, so much so that only the most complicated of cases warranted sending two full knights. He’d be surprised if they got back within three weeks.

“Well, then I’ll just have make sure I live long enough for you to do a writeup for that journal.”

A smile broke out on the Twi’lek’s face. “You better do. I’m counting on it.” The smiled faded. Another pause.

Qui-Gon braced himself for the bomb.

“Does Obi-Wan know?”

Ah. That was a good one. He allowed the flare from the explosion to wash over him.

“Considering that you just told me the news, I could hardly—”

“Don’t kriff with me, Qui-Gon Jinn. Does he even know that you have bloodburn?” Vokara snapped impatiently.

Qui-Gon shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. He had been talking quite a bit with Anakin these days, exchanging gossips behind my back…”

“That means no.” Vokara scrutinised him, digging for buried secrets hidden deep within his soul. “Now’s as good a time as any to tell him.”

“Oh, come now. He just went off on a mission.”

Vokara grabbed his datapad from the table beside him and slammed it into his chest. “Kriff you, Qui-Gon. This isn’t about you. Do you even care how he might feel if he found out that his former master’s dying and he didn’t even have the chance to see you one last time?”

Vokara’s words reminded Qui-Gon of what Obi-Wan said to him not so long ago.

“We haven’t been on talking terms for years,” Qui-Gon relented at last. “What makes you think he would care?”

Vokara fixed him with the signature death glare all healers seemed to possess and reserved for when faced with a stubborn patient who insisted on being an idiot.

“Then it’s his business. Tell him, and if he doesn’t come back, that’s his call.”

_His call. But what about me? What about the fact that I can’t bear knowing that he doesn’t give a damn about me at all?_

Qui-Gon shook his head. No, Vokara was right. This wasn’t about him. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

 

* * *

 

Qui-Gon stared at the fifty-fourth message he’d typed out and sighed. This one sounded horribly patronising and the way the words were strung together, it was as if he was trying to guilt Obi-Wan into coming back. He popped another ice chip into his mouth and deleted the message, typing out a shorter one. He was just finishing up when a knock came at his door. Qui-Gon looked up in time to see Anakin walking in, looking terribly pale and shaken.

Guilt constricted his chest. No doubt Anakin had just been brought up-to-date by Vokara.

“Are you messaging Obi-Wan?” asked Anakin.

“I’m trying to. But I can’t seem to make the words work.” He sighed again around the ice. “I’ll… try again later.”

With an angry huff, Anakin snatched the datapad out of his hand and punched on the ‘send’ button before Qui-Gon could even react.

“There. Done.”

Qui-Gon swallowed, heart racing in his chest as he took the datapad back. “Well, there’s that, I suppose. Thank you.”

He glanced down at the display of his datapad and felt his heart leap to his throat when the single grey tick multiplied, then turned blue. A timestamp appeared at the bottom of the message, preceded by the word ‘seen’.

“Keep your kriffing thanks to yourself! I hate you!” cried Anakin as tears streamed down his face. “Ihateyouihateyouihateyou! How are you so calm about all this? Why must you die? Why can’t you stay with me forever?”

That out-pour came much faster than he’d anticipated. Did children somehow cycle through the stages of grief faster?

Qui-Gon sighed and placed he datapad on the table beside his bed. He scooted over on the narrow mattress and extended one arm in invitation. Anakin immediately climbed onto the bed and snuggled into him, burying his face in Qui-Gon’s chest, drenching the front of his shirt with tears and snot.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“And nor I you,” said Qui-Gon gently. “But you see, all life comes from the Force, and must eventually return to the Force. Do you remember what the Code says?”

Anakin pulled away and sniffed, cleaning his nose on one sleeve. “There is no death, there is the Force.”

“That’s right, Anakin. So you see, as long you learn to be one with the Force and listen to Its will, you’ll always be able to hear me speaking to you.”

“That’s just a lie grown ups tell children to make them feel better,” said Anakin, unconvinced.

Qui-Gon smiled wryly. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know. I’ve never died before. Maybe I’ll try to send you a memo if I find out.”

Anakin was half-crying, half-snorting now. “You’re ridiculous.” Then, his face turned serious. “And you’re diverting the topic.”

“Ah. Nice catch. You’re getting better at this.”

Anakin squinted at him, telling Qui-Gon that his secondary attempt at diversion did not work.

He really needed to remember that this was the same kid who’d somehow managed to finagle the Supreme Chancellor into agreeing to put forth the motion to reinstate the Starfighter Corps that had been lynched all those years ago. Sure, the motion hadn’t been passed, but the Jedi did end up getting a hangar and a handful of refurbished starfighters, which was quite something.

With a sigh, Qui-Gon pulled Anakin so that the boy was leaning against him once more.

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t want to die. There’s so much to do, so many things that I’ve left undone that I don’t trust anyone to do once I’m not around. And yet there’s nothing I can do about it. Being angry about it doesn’t change anything. Ranting and raving at fate won’t stop me from dying. Remember what I told you back on Tatooine when you got into that squabble with Greedo? And no, I promise I’m not trying to divert the topic this time.”

Anakin was silent for a moment, dredging through his memory for the specific event Qui-Gon was referring to. “I was upset that Greedo accused me of cheating in the race and got into a fight with him because he wouldn’t take it back. You said that I know the truth, and that fighting over it won’t change his mind about it.”

“Exactly. Life, Anakin, is too short for us to expand time and energy going about doing things that doesn’t change anything or benefit anyone. All we can do is learn to make do with what little time we have to get the most out of it. So I’m not going to be wallowing here in self pity just because I’m dying. Instead, I’ll do my best to make what changes I can for the betterment of this world. It doesn’t have to be something grand. If I can make a little boy stop crying, I’d count it a success.”

Anakin scrunched his nose at that and shot him an indignant glare. Qui-Gon chuckled and winced when it sent a jolt of pain through him. Immediately, Anakin shifted, turning his body to face Qui-Gon.

“Is something wrong? Does something hurt? Should I get Vokara?”

Qui-Gon shook his head. “No, no. Just… Give me a moment.” He thought better about it. “No, actually, here, give me a hand, will you?”

Immediately, Anakin held out his hand towards Qui-Gon, open and trusting. The Jedi Master mused over the preciousness the gift of unconditional trust was coming from a boy who had spent his entire life surviving by distrusting everyone even as he took the young Initiate’s hand. Carefully, he tugged at Anakin’s mind. Anakin responded immediately, allowing Qui-Gon to draw him into a meditative state. Qui-Gon was careful to shield Anakin from experiencing all of the pain, allowing him only a glimpse of it.

_~This is how you do it.~_

He showed Anakin how all Jedi were taught to handle emotions and feelings — to first identify the feeling, understand what was causing it, accept the significance of it, then gather it slowly and release it into the Force.

When he opened his eyes, he found Anakin staring at him with an inscrutable expression.

“It seemed so easy when you did it,” he said, almost accusingly.

“Well, I’ve had sixty odd years worth of practise,” said Qui-Gon mildly. “When adults say practise makes perfect, we really do mean it, you know. Not everything we say are lies. I won’t be able to build a podracer on my own, for example.”

“But that’s easy!”

“That’s because you’ve had practice. Do you think you would have been able to built that podracer when you were three?”

Anakin scrunched his nose again, probably trying and failing to remember what it was like when he was three. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

“Well then, nor do I know if releasing emotions to the Force will ever be as easy for you as it is for me. I only know that if you stop trying, you’ll never get better at it.”

That was probably too much philosophy for a child to handle before lunch. Then again, Anakin wasn’t just any child.

“Breathing exercises and meditation tend to help, too.”

Anakin scowled — the boy hated both with a passion.

“I’ll try,” he muttered sullenly.

Qui-Gon squinted at him. “Had Yoda not shared with you his favourite maxim yet?”

From the confused look on Anakin’s face, probably not. Qui-Gon cleared his throat and did his best impersonation of Yoda’s raspy voice. “Do or do not. There is no try.”

It was a terrible impersonation, not helped by the fact that he was starting to get out of breath and he was easily three times Yoda’s height. Still, Anakin laughed.

“Is that what he really says?”

“Yes. But between you and me, I give credit for those who try. Think you can promise me you’ll do at least that much?”

Just like that, Anakin turned serious again. “Okay.” He turned away, looking torn between being angry and being sad. “I still don’t want you to die. Who’s going to make sure that the Senate doesn’t embezzle all the funds when you’re gone?”

“Ah. That, my friend, is where trust and learning to let go come in. I’ve done my best to ensure that the committee is made up of like-minded individuals keen on upholding justice. What they do next from here on out is beyond my control. It’s like building a droid — you can only do your best to make sure that it’s well put-together. But once that’s done and you sell it to someone else, you can only trust that it will function as you intend it to.”

“Just like Obi-Wan.”

It was a rare day when Qui-Gon was caught so completely off-guard, but it seemed like this day, a child managed to accomplish what countless politicians had tried and failed to do for decades.

“What?”

“Like Obi-Wan. He was your apprentice, and you do your best to train him, but once he’d graduated, you have to learn to trust him to do good by your training and let him go. That’s why you didn’t stop him from going on all those dangerous missions even though the idea of him being in danger drives you to distraction.”

It was an uncanny observation coming from one so young.

“That is… exceptionally well said.”

Anakin frowned. “I promise to be the bestest Jedi ever. You can trust me on that one.”

Qui-Gon poked a finger between his brows, smoothing out his brows.

“Two things, Ani.” He held up his forefinger. “One, I don’t need you to be a Jedi. I want you to learn the way of the Force.” He wanted to add, to bring Balance to the Force, but decided it was too big a burden to impose on any one person, let alone a child. He skipped over that part of his message and went on. “There’s a difference.” He held up a second finger. “And two, you don’t have to be the best. You just have to do your best. There’s also a difference.” He allowed his mock-stern expression to melt into a smile. “But thank you, Ani. It means a lot to me to know that you care so much about me. Now come here and let this old man hug you for a while longer before your creche master comes accusing me of having abducted you past curfew.”

Anakin scooted back up against him and leaned into him, more gently this time. Qui-Gon wrapped him arms around the boy and hummed softly, projecting reassurance to him via the Force even as his own heart welled with dread at the datapad on the table that had remained conspicuously silent throughout the entire lengthy exchange.

Anakin all but purred in his embrace, content to be close to him. Qui-Gon suppressed a sigh. At least one person will never have cause to learn what a rotten person Qui-Gon really was deep down inside. It was just as well that he could never be Anakin’s master — the Jedi Order certainly did not need him to break another one of its member.

Just when Qui-Gon thought Anakin had drifted asleep, the boy spoke up. “I don’t get it. Why must people like you die when mean people like the Hutts live such long lives?”

“That is actually a very good question and if I knew the answer to that question, I would have given it you. But no… Not even I know the answer to every question in the world. Some times, we’ll have to make peace with what understanding we can discern from the Force. What does the Force tell you?”

Anakin sighed. “I don’t know.” A pause. Another sigh. “You’re going to tell me that that’s something I’ll have to meditate over, aren’t you?”

“With wits like yours, you’ll be wizard when you grow up, Ani.”

 

* * *

 

Observing the everyday drama unfolding in the Healing Halls was so much better than watching holodramas. Qui-Gon ignored the pointed stares Vokara kept shooting him every few minutes as he lounged in the waiting area. She’d tried to convince him to stay in his room, of course. Continuous rest in bed, she’d called it, hanging the warning tag for ‘high fall risk’ at the side of his bed. Qui-Gon had simply hung the tag around his neck like a badge of honour and went to find himself a favourite seat among the chairs meant for patients waiting for their turn to be seen.

“She’d been vomiting all morning,” said one Bothan Initiate as his Quermian friend wobbled beside him, staring at Qui-Gon out of the corner of his eyes.

The junior padawan at the reception looked positively panicked at the sight of the young girl swaying on her feet, looking ready to collapse at any moment.

“Tell your friend to stop playing with the stash of T-289 gas grenades Master Fisto recovered during his mission to Arkanis and the symptoms will resolve on its own. Next time, if you want to skip classes, choose a method that doesn’t actually leave you incapacitated for the rest of the day,” Qui-Gon rasped out.

The Caamasi shot him a grateful look and ushered the Quermian to an empty bed. Qui-Gon gave him a thumbs up and popped another ice chip into his mouth.

“Yes, challenging each other to see who can withstand being burned by your training lightsabers the longest tend to have that effect.”

“And exactly how many turns did you do in the starfighter?”

“You’re being a menace,” said Vokara, standing in front of him with crossed arms.

“Ben seemed to enjoy my company,” Qui-Gon pointed out, indicating towards the Caamasi padawan, who froze under the imperious glare of his master, looking like a traladon caught in the spotlight. “Would you rather I excused myself from this particular wing of the Jedi Temple entirely?”

Vokara scowled at him. “Stay out of the way and don’t go wandering off where we can’t see you.”

“How am I supposed to go to the loo?”

Vokara glared at Ben. “Do you remember how to insert a urinary catheter?”

Ben blanched. “Uh...”

Qui-Gon swallowed. “Touche,” he relented.

Vokara smirked.

Once, he caught poor little Ben sobbing inside a broom closet because he was certain he was doing a terrible job and would never make it past apprenticeship.

“Come now, back to my room,” coaxed Qui-Gon.

They’d spent an hour in joint meditation. When Ben left, he stood a little straighter, his steps a little lighter, but it was Qui-Gon who had benefited the most from it. He enjoyed this, he realised, being able to connect with someone during meditation, to guide them towards seeking inner peace. It reminded him of the all the times he’d done it with Obi-Wan. 

Perhaps Yoda’s insistence for him to take on Obi-Wan had been less for Obi-Wan’s benefit and more for his own, Qui-Gon thought to himself as he stared out of the window in his room which overlooked the top of the dome-shaped roof of Lake Level, sensing the myriad of Force presences frolicking in joy within the structure. He enjoyed this too, he realised, being so close to other sentients.

The next day, he looked on with interest as one, then two, then five crechelings squeezed themselves into the broom closet, trying to avoid being vaccinated. Qui-Gon wasn’t sure if they thought themselves smart of their creche master stupid. Realistically, they probably weren’t thinking in those lines at all and were merely concerned with getting away.

He waited until he was sure none of the others were going to join the crowd of twelve squashed up inside the claustrophobic space before easing himself out of the chair and heading over to the closet. Twenty-five eyes blinked at him in terror when he opened the door.

“Why, I could have sworn my creche master assured me that the story of bogeymen hiding in the closet is simply a myth,” Qui-Gon remarked out loud.

“We’re not bogeymen!” said a Brubb.

“Shut up, Raz,” snapped a tiny Togruta girl.

“Raz’s right, though. We aren’t bogeyman. We’re Jedi,” said a Mon Calamari.

“Well, what else do you call children who would risk going about spreading disease to their friends just because they’re afraid of a needle?”

All of the younglings shuffled uneasily on their feet. Qui-Gon pretended to check for eavesdroppers and crouched down to whisper to them. “I’ll tell you a secret. I’m scared of needles too.”

“Really?” asked Raz.

“Don’t be stupid. Of course not!” snapped the Togruta.

“No. It’s true. But I found a way to make the pain go away.”

“You’re going to tell us to meditate again, aren’t you?” said the Togruta girl warily. “It doesn’t work. I’ve tried last time.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, but you’ve never tried my method before. Care to learn? How about it — if it doesn’t work, I’ll tell you where the sweets are kept in the refractory.”

He could almost hear the cogwheels whirring away in the children’s heads as they ground their minds looking for any signs of deception.

“A Jedi keeps his promise,” said the Togruta threateningly.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” said Qui-Gon solemnly.

“Fine.”

He had fully expected the ruse — one of them pretended that it didn’t work and yelped in pain.

“Alright. I’ll have my friend show you the way. But only if you promise never to hide from the healers again.” If they had been older, they would realise that it was hardly a fair trade. Then again, it’s not like three-year-olds were wont to reasoning out what was fair and what was not and all of them agreed in a hurry.

His ‘friend’, of course, came in the form of one unsuspecting Anakin Skywalker. This particular group of crechelings were too young to realise that Anakin was an anomaly for having joined them at such an old age, having themselves joined the Order after Anakin had arrived, and crowded around the older boy in awe as he promised them to bring them to the secret place later in the night.

“You’re not going to backstab us and turn us in, are you?” demanded the Togruta.

“Do I look like someone who will betray my friends, Snips?” Anakin shot back in irritation.

The Togruta scowled at the moniker. “How would I know, Skyguy?”

Qui-Gon watched in bemusement as Anakin bickered with the youngling barely a quarter his age.

 _They’ll get along just fine_ , he thought.

Later, Vokara shook her head at him in mock disapproval.

“I’m not sure if the short term solution you provided us is worth the long term headache you’ve created for us,” she lamented, though she couldn’t quite hide the smile on her face.

Qui-Gon smiled back at her. “You’ll see.”

 _You_ , not _we_ , because Qui-Gon would not live to see these younglings take on the Initiate trials, let alone be taken on as padawans and be knighted.

Vokara’s smile became strained at that but she chose not to comment on it.

 

* * *

 

Funny how time seemed to crawl by agonisingly slowly when you’re in pain, and Qui-Gon was nothing if not in pain. It came deep in the night, the bogeyman of every child’s nightmare back to haunt him in his old age, tormenting him ceaselessly until daybreak, refusing to grant him respite. It didn’t take long for Qui-Gon’s defiant excursions to come to an end — at one point, he simply didn’t have the energy to keep it up anymore and simply gave up entirely.

So instead, he spent his day waiting by the side of his comlink and datapad both, waiting for a comm or a message that he knew would never come.

A small, petty, irrational part of him hated Anakin for sending the twice-karked message. He wished the boy hadn’t done it. If Obi-Wan hadn’t known, he could delude himself into believing that the man was simply too preoccupied with his mission. But Anakin had sent the message and Obi-Wan knew. He knew but hadn’t in all that time bothered to so much as comm him. Obi-Wan must hate him very deeply indeed if he refused to even meet his former master one last time.

It was, of course, a thought unworthy of a Jedi. Anakin had meant well.

_At least the boy was capable of actually getting things done, which was much more than I can ever accomplish._

Qui-Gon gathered his negative emotions and released them to the Force.

His salvation came in the form of the endless string of padawans that seemed to have picked up on the news that his room was a sanctuary for when they were feeling too overwhelmed. Qui-Gon hadn’t minded the loss of privacy one bit, happily indulging them with bits of popsicles that were really meant for him.

“He’s probably on an undercover mission,” Bant Eerin had said, not unreasonably, when she visited. “Last I checked, their mission is buried under a whole layer of red tapes. Top secret. He might not have had the chance to read the message.”

Qui-Gon nodded even as he revisited the spot where the double blue ticks indicating that the message had been seared into his mind.

_Maybe he’d opened the message but didn’t have a chance to read it._

Qui-Gon wasn’t quite sure why he insisted on expanding his energy deluding himself with comforting lies. Still, the idea gave him hope, and he clung onto it desperately like a drowning man on a piece of driftwood, stubbornly refusing to die even as his blood seared the veins it coursed through, burning him mercilessly from inside out.

Some days, Qui-Gon wished that Obi-Wan would just send him a message telling him to kriff off. At least that way, he would be able to convince his heart what his head had known for years and finally give up hoping for good. As it was, the old master never heard from the young knight and the former continued to cling and to wait.

 

* * *

 

 

As a healer, Vokara was no stranger to deaths. She’d seen her fair share of Jedi dying from old age, illness and wounds from when she was a padawan. Still, it never failed to hit her in the gut when she had to witness a friend resign to a slow, painful death.

She watched as Qui-Gon’s strength faded with each passing day. Still, he’d clung stubbornly to life, refusing to give in to the sickness that was determined to claim him. It was an open secret that he offered his room as a sanctuary for all the healers who were having a bad day and needed a place to hide and recuperate. More than once, she had caught him sitting cross-legged in joint meditation with a youngling long after he should have been lying down to rest. Everyone who visited the Halls of Healing, padawans and Jedi alike, were drawn to the man’s calm presence like moth to fire. Already, she could tell that his passing would be felt deeply by everyone around him.

Vokara knew that the bright smile he wore on his face daily was but a mask, a strong face he kept on for the benefit of the junior padawan healers who had to visit him during their daily ward rounds. Deep down inside, he was desperate for his erstwhile former padawan’s return, reluctant to part from life without at least reconciling with the person that was the closest thing he had to a son. The healer watched as the man continued fighting long past the best prognosis she’d afforded him, stubbornly clinging on to life with every last shred of energy he had.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Still, they heard no word from Obi-Wan. Really, Vokara wasn’t surprised. From the bits and pieces of intelligence she’d gathered, Obi-Wan had gotten himself embroiled in some undisclosed mission infiltrating into Hutt Space. Even if he’d wanted to, it would have been impossible for him to come back for a visit without risking blowing his cover. There was nothing to do but to hope that his mission would go smoothly and he would return soon. Even when all else was lost, there was still hope.

It took her unreasonably long to notice the anomaly. In her defence, she’d been too preoccupied with the sudden influx of patients due to an outbreak of banthaflu among the crechelings to really pay much attention to numbers that weren’t highlighted in red. Still, it was a mark that her attention for details was slipping with age.

“Master Vokara, isn’t this patient using too much opioid?” asked her padawan during their evening ward round one day, blinking up at her.

Vokara frowned over the chart he was clutching in his hands. “No. That’s a fairly normal intake for someone with a fractured femur.”

Ben blinked at the chart uncomprehendingly. “Oh.” He frowned. “But Master Qui-Gon never took quite this much.”

Vokara’s lekku twitched in the Twi’lek equivalent of a human raising an eye brow. That wasn’t possible.

“Show me his charts,” she said, even though she knew that her padawan hadn’t been wrong. Healers just had a tendency to believe only in what they saw with their own two eyes.

Five minutes later, she was in Qui-Gon’s room, pretending to be checking some of the monitors while the Jedi Master typed out a reply on his datapad, most likely answering to one well-wisher or another.

“You’ve been going out less these days,” she said conversationally.

Qui-Gon hadn’t earned himself the title as the Order’s go-to diplomat for no reason. If one did not plan one’s line of attack carefully, he’d slither his way out of giving an honest answer like a Sorrusian did narrow gaps.

“I hate to tell you this, but war doesn’t suit you, Master Vokara. Deceit, less so. Just spit your question,” said Qui-Gon, looking up at last.

It was often easy to forget that a man who spent his entire life setting out one hundred and one traps for others would be able to smell a trap coming from miles away.

“Will you give me a straight answer if I did?” she asked.

“Depends on the question, really, but I dare say yes. It’s not like I have forever to twist and turn my words around.” Qui-Gon chuckled slightly at his own morbid humour.

Fair enough.

“How bad is the pain exactly?”

There was a pause, though from the contemplative look on Qui-Gon’s face, it was more because he was actually giving the question serious thought rather than because it caught him off guard.

“I don’t think I’ve been able to sleep for the past ten — no, twelve? — nights now. It usually gets worse at night, and after exertion.”

From how calmly he’d said it, one would have thought that he was exaggerating about his symptoms. But Vokara knew Qui-Gon well enough. This was the same man who’d insisted he was fine and asked after his padawan’s wellbeing even as he lay incapacitated on a bed with a fractured pelvis, five fractured ribs and a double fourth degree laceration on his liver and spleen. If he would willingly admit that he was in pain, it must be bad. Really bad.

“I could increase the dose—”

“There’s no need,” Qui-Gon interrupted. “It’s not so bad that I can’t bear it.”

Healer and patient stared at each other.

“Qui-Gon, you’re the most resilient and stubborn man I’ve ever known. If the pain’s bothering you enough that you can’t sleep at night and you would willingly keep yourself couped up in here, you’re clearly being under-dosed,” said Vokara gently.

Here, Qui-Gon smiled faintly.

“Analgesia worsens bloodburn, did you know that?” Of course, Vokara knew. It was her kriffing job as a healer to know. And despite his harebrained tendencies, Qui-Gon wasn’t stupid either, so _of course_ he knew she knew. This was merely his way of telling her that he knew it too. “And even if it didn’t, most patients with severe, chronic pain eventually died of respiratory arrest due to opioid overdose. I don’t want to die like that.”

Most people would rather die than endure the amount of pain he must be going through constantly on a daily basis right now. Vokara didn’t need to ask to know why Qui-Gon chose to live even if it meant spending every second in a literal living hell.

“Do you need me to—?” she trailed off, never finishing her sentence.

An emergency recall was what she’d been about to suggest. It was a recall of the highest urgency, one that told the Jedi to abandon whatever mission they were on and return to the Jedi Temple at once. It would have been an abuse to use it for such a reason, of course, but Vokara thought that for once, she couldn’t care less. If the result of her gross violation of proper conduct was that she would be expelled from the Order, so be it. She didn’t become a healer to see someone suffer like this.

Qui-Gon snorted, a gesture that was meant to be dismissive. “Don’t be stupid. What he’s doing is important. You know that.”

The problem was, Vokara did. Which was why she hadn’t been able to bring herself to finish the sentence. She realised with a start that she hadn’t hated being a Jedi more than she did right there and there. Kark this whole self-sacrificing nonsense. Why can’t a Jedi place their own needs before the needs of the galaxy for once? Is it not enough that they’d spent decades in service of the Republic? They’d given up marrying and having children so that they could concentrate fully on serving the people. How much more did they need to do before they did enough?

She knew the answer to that, of course. Despite all the good the Jedi were doing, there were many still who berated the Jedi as not doing enough. What use were the Jedi, when they didn’t do more to help stave off sufferings like famine and slavery? Such privileged bastards were they, that they would turn a blind eye to the sufferings of the sentients in the Outer Rims. It didn’t matter that there was perhaps one Jedi to every billion sentient across the Republic or that Jedi were mere mortals like everyone else. It only mattered that they were beings gifted with special powers and should therefore possess the divine capability of putting their personal needs aside and dedicate their entire lives in service of others.

In the eyes of the world, the Jedi could never do enough.

And the Order was standing on thin ice as it was. Theirs was a non-profit organisation that relied solely on the funding of the Republic. If they wanted to continue receiving support, they needed to demonstrate that all Jedi were one hundred percent for the people all of the time.

Being a Jedi was voluntary. That didn’t mean that the title of ‘Jedi’ wasn’t a shackle in and of itself. It was a shackle they wore willingly, but a shackle nonetheless.

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

One day, long after Anakin had left and returned to his room for the night, Vokara stepped into the Qui-Gon's room and planted her hands on her hips. Qui-Gon tore his eyes away from the dark screen of the datapad, weariness clearly showing through the multiple fissures in his mask. He hadn't been able to sit up on his own for two days now, and was beginning to have difficulty breathing on his own.

“Look, I’ve send notice to every single spaceport on Coruscant. Tell them to notify us as soon as he’s back. To tell him to get back here immediately and not go dawdling off some place.”

It was unnecessary, of course. Obi-Wan wasn’t the sort to go traipsing around Coruscant before reporting back to the Council after a mission. Still, Vokara needed to say something — to do something, or she would go crazy with the inaction.

Qui-Gon’s face had crumpled then, the mask shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. For the first time since he’d been diagnosed with his fatal disease, he’d cried, confiding in her his insecurities, his fears, his regrets. There was little Vokara could do but lend him her ears and her support. From her long years of service in the Healing Halls, she knew that often, that was all her patients required of her. It still shocked her to the core nonetheless to find out how deep Qui-Gon’s problems went.

“I failed him, Vokara, just like I’ve failed Xanatos, and Tahl, and everyone I’ve failed to save.”

_No. It is I who have failed as a friend, if not as a healer, if in all the years I’ve known you, I never once caught on to how much you were hurting on the inside._

“Don’t be absurd. The boy loves you. And you didn’t fail him. He’s a fine man, the best knight of his age.”

Qui-Gon smiled thinly at her, but Vokara knew that the man didn’t trust her — couldn’t bring himself to feel her conviction in her words. It was like speaking to someone trapped behind a wall. The other person could hear her words, but not feel it. Some gaps were simply too wide to be breached, some wounds too deep to ever be healed.

“I promised him I’d wait for him to come back, but it seems like I’m doomed to fail him even in this. You’ll tell him for me, won’t you? Tell him that I’m sorry?”

This was where a person normally brushed the morbid talk away and either insist apologies were unnecessary or that he told Obi-Wan himself. But she was Vokara Che, and Vokara Che was a pragmatic person to the last.

“I will. I promise.”

This time, the smile was at least sincere, if sad. “Thank you.”

Those were the last words Qui-Gon spoke.

The next day, Qui-Gon didn’t wake up. His heart continued to beat, but he would not wake. Vokara stood by the side in silence as Anakin choked back on his tears.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to keep fighting. You’ve always hated fighting, haven’t you? You always preferred doing things the peaceful way. You can let go now. I’ll be alright. Everyone will be alright,” said the boy shakily, sniffing hard.

Qui-Gon continued to remain unconscious, showing no signs of having heard anything that had transpired around him.

It was inevitable that the flood dam would finally break and Anakin broke out into tears, crying uncontrollably. “I’ll do right by you, Master Qui-Gon. I promise. I’ll do my best, I’ll learn the way of the Force, so don’t worry about me, okay?”

Vokara left the room silently, allowing the boy his privacy. Outside, the junior padawans had gathered around the door, each one trying to conceal their sniffs.

“You look a sight,” she said, crossing her arms. Then, more gently, she added, “Come along now. Let’s give them some space. There’ll be time for us later.”

Three days after that, Qui-Gon finally breathed his last. The Jedi weren’t wont to broadcast it when one of their own died yet somehow, the news went out, spreading rapidly like wildfire. Vokara wasn’t surprised in the least when classes were cancelled and nearly everyone in the Temple, from crechelings to padawans to Jedi masters came to pay their final respect. Every offworld Jedi who could make the trip back returned. Sentients of all species gathered in the Temple District, hovering outside the Jedi Temple, forming a crowd so dense that it was almost impossible to get in or out.

Standing at the window looking down at the massive crowd below, Vokara lamented that she could not let Qui-Gon see this, to let him know how much good he’d done to the world and how much he was loved and missed. Not that it would matter to him. Not really, anyway. Not when the one person he cared most in the world was absent from the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was actually inspired by something that happened IRL, which got me lamenting about missed opportunities. Really, one of the most terrible thing to happen in life, IMO, is to be in Obi-Wan's shoes in this fic, where you end up in a position where you become estranged from someone you love because of some trivial misunderstandings that never got properly resolved for whatever reasons, and the next thing you know, you'll never get the chance to. So uh, moral of the story, YOLO. Also, freaking EVERYONE only live ONCE. You want to get something done? **GET IT DONE ALREADY!**
> 
> I think that a lot of the weight of the theme got lost when I broke the story up and presented it the way I did (for no better reason other than because I'm generally terrible at sticking to an intended trajectory when I write) but hey, I managed to sneak in some Anakin time and hopefully managed to give the moment where Anakin called Qui-Gon 'master' some weight along the way. Honestly, though, 90% of why chapter 3 & 4 happened at all is for something that I'll only address as a footnote in the final chapter (which, I haven't written yet btw, so it'll take a while to happen) and I'm still feeling rather confused about their existence because that footnote didn't absolutely need to happen x.x


	7. Lost | Stranded away from home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning: slavery**
> 
> **Bold text is a direct quote from Jedi Apprentice.**
> 
> I am sorry this took so long to write! I really only intended it to be a 4k-ish thing with a 1k afterword, but things got out of hand as usual.
> 
> I'm pretty sure this monster is rife with typos. Please forgive me. The final chapter isn't a chapters as it is a lengthy author's note regarding stuff that didn't make it to the final cut and what happens to the characters after the end of the story. In other words, if you would rather leave things up for imagination, feel free to skip chapter 8.

_Obi-Wan panted as he dashed across the final length of distance separating him from the starship that was supposed to bring them back to Coruscant, painfully aware that he was late for his rendezvous with his master. This breach in his otherwise stellar record of always being on time irked him, but he supposed it couldn’t be helped. Certainly he could hardly witness a robbery and not step in to help. He slowed to a walk as he drew closer to the starship. Qui-Gon was sitting on the ramp, typing something on his datapad, brows furrowed in concentration. As Obi-Wan watched, the Jedi Master hit on what must be the “Send” button and let out a sigh, looking like he’d just made a terribly difficult decision and wasn’t sure if he was happy or sad to have made it._

_That sparked Obi-Wan’s curiosity. He had never seen Qui-Gon in so much dilemma over any single thing before. Was it another mission? Except it couldn’t be. Knowing Qui-Gon, he would just take the mission, however much he disliked it, and somehow twist it into something else altogether to better fit a semblance of what he deemed as a worthy mission. Truly, Qui-Gon's saving grace was that the locals who requested for Jedi help in the first place usually liked the results. ‘Usually’ being the keyword._

_Gathering his cloak around him, the padawan ascended the ramp quickly, determined to find what could have caused Qui-Gon so much distress._

_At his approach, Qui-Gon looked up from his datapad. His eyes widened as they fell upon Obi-Wan’s face. A slew of emotions coursed over Qui-Gon’s face, going from surprise to joy to confusion in rapid succession. Obi-Wan paused, not quite comprehending the reaction. Did he do something?_

_“Master?” Subconsciously, he began running his mind over the facts. After a gruelling year living on the run, the mission to protect the young duchess was finally at an end and a new government was established on New Mandalore. Earlier, he’d requested leave from his master to bid the Duchess goodbye before returning to Coruscant — a request that had been granted far more easily than he’d expected. And now Qui-Gon was behaving as if he thought—_

_“—you weren’t coming back,” said the Jedi Master the same time Obi-Wan’s datapad emitted a soft ping to indicate an incoming message. “Don’t bother. That was me,” he added quickly when Obi-Wan made to draw his datapad._

Was that a flash of fear in Qui-Gon’s eyes?

_Obi-Wan changed the course of his hand, lifting it further up to scratch his head instead. “Why would you think that? I promised you I would be coming with you, didn’t I? Okay, sure, I was five standard minutes late but that’s because I made a little detour chasing down a thief as I was passing through the market!”_

_Qui-Gon held his shoulder with one hand and steered them all the way up the ramp past the hangar into the hold. “I didn’t miss the way the two of you were looking at each other, padawan. I simply figured that if she’d asked you to stay, you would.”_

_Obi-Wan blushed furiously. And here he thought he’d hid his feelings well._

_“She didn’t.”_

_Qui-Gon nodded, looking terribly sympathetic. It was meant to be comforting, but it only caused Obi-Wan to stop walking, indignant. That drew Qui-Gon’s attention more quickly than if he’d called the man’s name out loud._

_“You don’t understand, master. Even if she had asked me to stay, I wouldn’t have. For a while, I honestly thought I would. But then I realised that I wouldn’t even if I could. If there’s one thing that I’d learnt on Melida/Daan, it’s that to be a Jedi is my calling and my place is to be by your side, always. I won’t ever leave you, master. Not willingly. Not again.”_

_“Times change; people change. What was true ten years ago may not be true today, and what is true today, may not be true ten years from now. Certainly, even if you remain a Jedi, you won’t still be by my side. I would very much hope you’ll be a Jedi Knight carrying out missions on your own by then. In that same vein, I would not have faulted you if you’d chosen to leave the Jedi, though certainly I would have preferred it if you’d come and told me in person rather than just disappear and fail to show up.”_

_Obi-Wan opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again, at loss for words. He cleared his throat and tried again._

_“Is that what you sent to me? Telling me to grow a pair and tell you I’m leaving in person?” He drew his datapad from where he’d stashed it in his pack. Now he really need to see what his master had sent him._

_“There’s no need to read it,” said Qui-Gon, hurriedly reaching out to grab the device._

_Obi-Wan sidestepped his master and whirled around, blocking Qui-Gon with one hand while holding the datapad as far away from the frantic man as possible with the other. He clicked on the single unread message._

*Obi-Wan, you should know by now that if you want to leave, you only need to say the word. Let there be no hard feelings between us even if we are no longer master and padawan.*

_“Really, master? This is so incredibly cheesy,” said Obi-Wan, laughing._

_Qui-Gon crossed his arms and wore a stern expression on his face, but the effect was considerably ruined by the embarrassment that was leaking around the shields he had kept up on his side of their training bond. Obi-Wan cackled and released Qui-Gon. Using both hands, he began typing out a reply. To his credit, Qui-Gon didn’t try to peek. He merely stood his ground and oozed embarrassment._

_“There. Sent. Read it.”_

_Qui-Gon studied him dubiously and picked up his datapad when it pinged._

*If you ever need me to come back to you, you only need to say the word and I’ll ALWAYS come back to you.*

_“And this isn’t cheesy?” Qui-Gon sputtered in mock indignation._

_“I had to learn something from you,” Obi-Wan shot back._

_Qui-Gon laughed._

_“But really, master. I will always come back to you. Always. No matter when or where.” Obi-Wan felt an urge to hug him, then, but held back. Qui-Gon was always such a private man. He didn’t want to make him uncomfortable._

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan ran his hands over his weapon harness for the umpteenth time, familiarising himself to the location of every blaster, every dart, every vibroblade he carried on his person. Once they were on Nal Hutta, reaching for the right weapon in the right place needed to be second nature if he was to convince anyone that he was a bounty hunter. Certainly, no bounty hunter worth his salt needed to look to reach for a vibroshiv sheathed in his boots or uncoil a whip wrapped around his forearm — he needed a weapon and it was in his hands before the next heartbeat. He practised drawing his blaster, making sure he could draw and shoot in one fluid motion. The vibroshivs, he tested their balance and practised cutting, slashing, jabbing and stabbing with them and even acquainted himself with throwing them.

“Calm down, Boubai, you’re making me nervous,” Quinlan drawled, casually inspecting his nails. On his part, he looked every bit the bounty hunter, from the grimy dreadlocks to the well-worn Mandalorian armour to the double blasters at his hips and the jetpack on his back that was really there more for the aesthetics and a reason to explain away his ability to jump further distances than should be humanely possible than because he actually needed it. He looked like a man who’d spent so long being a bounty hunter, he don’t remember being anything else. Obi-Wan, on the other hand, looked like a green sapling out to make his mark on the world.

Obi-Wan sheathed the vibroshiv and began pacing the starship instead. He had a bad feeling about this entire mission, and the feeling only intensified with every passing second. Something was wrong. Somehow, he was convinced that he should abandon the mission now when he still can and return to the Temple, but why? Was the mission somehow compromised and he just didn’t know it yet? Or worse, was the Sith somehow involved in this? No, it wasn’t that. Whatever it was, this feeling he had was different from the one he had on-board the Revenue. He drew on the Force, trying and failing to find his calm centre.

“No, really, take a seat. No one’s going to believe for a second that you’re a bounty hunter if you keep acting so fidgety. Your cover will be blown before you can even set foot on a grain of sand,” Quinlan repeated.

“I know, Szchiffa. Something just feels off to me. Don’t you feel it?”

Quinlan tore his eyes away from his nails and gave Obi-Wan an unimpressed look. “I don’t feel anything.”

It was uncanny how his words echoed those of Qui-Gon’s aboard the _Revenue_ minutes before the Trade Federation decided to try to kill them. The bad feeling only intensified.

“Look, this is going to be a fairly straightforward mission, partner. We deliver Ziro’s spice back to him and claim our payment, no questions asked. If he’s happy with our services, he’ll contact us again for a second, third and fourth mission, and we use the opportunity to gain his trust, get close to him and find that evidence to overthrow the Hutts once and for all. If not…” Quinlan shrugged. “We’re out of the game and another squad gets sent in. Easy peasy. Relax. It’s much easier to be a bounty hunter than to be a Jedi. I promise.”

That was easy for him to say. Quinlan spent so much time in his bounty hunter persona, there was actually an entire dossier built up around the Kiffar bounty hunter Szchiffa Cour. Within certain circles, it was even a name that carried its own weight.

A soft ping of an incoming message on a datapad interrupted whatever reply Obi-Wan was about to throw at him. Both of them turned to their datapads at once.

“Don’t fret. It’s mine,” said Quinlan, waving a hand at Obi-Wan. He was silent for a moment as he scanned through the message.

Obi-Wan forced himself to stand still.

“You look constipated doing that, Boubai,” Quinlan commented without taking his eyes off the datapad.

_“Don’t centre on your anxiety, Obi-Wan. Keep your concentration here and now where it belongs.”_

Closing his eyes, Obi-Wan inhaled deeply, gathering the Force around him, allowing it to wash over him and fill him. Slowly, he exhaled, releasing his anxiety into the Force as it flowed out of him. It was about as useful as bailing water out of a canoe with a hole in its bottom — as soon as he released the anxiety, more flooded his mind to replace the void.

“Huh. A contact on Nal Hutta just told me that Ziro’s looking to procure new slaves,” said Quinlan.

“Aren’t Hutts always in the business of procuring new slaves?”

“You know, that is actually true.”

In the background, the console beeped, signalling that they were about to drop out of hyperspace. Neither man spared it a glance.

There was a look of deep contemplation on Quinlan’s face as he spoke — a look Obi-Wan had learnt over the years to be exceedingly wary of. As a rule, Quinlan Vos was the sort of person who acted first and thought later. It was just as well, considering that his brainchild tended to make Qui-Gon Jinn’s plans sound like they came out of the galaxy’s leading philosopher. When Quinlan started plying his mind to planning, things invariably went free-falling downhill.

Obi-Wan eyed him warily.

“I don’t like that loo—”

Another ping sounded. Quinlan shot a glance down at the datapad still in his hands and lifted his eyes back to Obi-Wan. “That’s yours.”

Grateful for the distraction, Obi-Wan rummaged through his pack and retrieved his datapad. He frowned when he saw that the message came from Qui-Gon. Was something wrong? His finger hovered over the message, his heart pounding in his chest.

It was ridiculous. Why should reading a message from his former master cause him so much anxiety? They used to be so close that they didn’t need to communicate with words.

He steeled himself and clicked on the message.

_*Obi-Wan, I—*_

Whatever was in the rest of the message, Obi-Wan never found out. He felt a surge of warning in the Force seconds before a strong blast shot right through the datapad in his hands into the centre of the chest, knocking him off his feet and sending him flying backwards into the bulkhead behind him. A loud crack sounded, followed by a burst of light in front of his eyes, and he knew no more.

 

* * *

 

_Obi-Wan sat at the bottom of Lake Level, watching the fragments of light shimmering above him as the artificial sunlight reflected of the surface of the water. The sound around him was muffled, dampened by the gentle currents of the water brushing back and forth over him. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the panic the Twi’leks must have felt in their final hours, trapped underwater in a locked vehicle with no means of escape. Did they scream in panic? Did they cry? Could they even hear themselves over the sound of water pouring in from the compromised air vents and seals? How long did they hold out for, waiting for help that came too late to matter? How long could a mammal hold their breath before they lost consciousness?_

_Seconds ticked by. Minutes._

_The roar of the water in his ears intensified with his raging guilt…_

_The next thing he knew, he was lying on his side on the grass, coughing up mouthful of water, rain water pounding steadily onto him. It took him a while to register that steady trail of water droplets falling onto him came from a large shadow looming over him._

_“Next time you want to test out your diving abilities, make sure you have someone with you, okay?” said the unmistakable voice of Bant, except the direction of her voice was wrong and came to him from one side rather than over him._

_Obi-Wan expelled another cough of water from his lungs and turned to look, chest heaving for air. The face that loomed directly over his was covered in shadow, but there was no mistaking him to be anyone other than Qui-Gon, water dripping from locks of dishevelled grey hair. Bant’s head hovered next to his, slightly to the left._

_“I wasn’t trying out my diving abilities,” he corrected, leaning on one elbow to sit up. “I just wanted to know how it felt.”_

_Qui-Gon helped him up. Briefly, he could feel Qui-Gon’s Force presence envelop him, wrapping around him like a warm cloak on a cold night, and Obi-Wan leaned into it, reveling in the comfort it brought. For all of one second, he wasn’t Knight Kenobi, the Jedi who had failed the one thousand sentient he’d been sent to protect but Obi-Wan, the young padawan who could depend on his master to say and do the right things to make everything alright again. He felt an insane urge to cry._

_“How what felt?” asked Qui-Gon._

_Just like that, the moment was gone. Obi-Wan’s throat constricted. Of all the people in the world, Qui-Gon was the one person he absolutely could not talk to about this. Bad enough that he’d kriffed up so royally. He didn’t think he could stand being on the receiving end of Qui-Gon’s disappointment just yet._

_Qui-Gon turned to Bant, incomprehension written all over his face. Clearly, he was not privy to his former padawan’s assigned missions._

_“Obi-Wan was the Jedi assigned to oversee the evacuation of the Equanimity,” Bant said by way of explanation._

_Obi-Wan watched as understanding began to dawn on Qui-Gon’s face. He averted his eyes, feeling ashamed._

_“Don’t be too harsh on yourself. You’ve done your best, Obi-Wan,” said Qui-Gon gently. “It doesn’t matter that you’ve failed, only that you learn to —”_

_Somehow, hearing the words of absolution from his former master made it even more unbearable than if Qui-Gon had chided him. If only he’d paid more attention to Qui-Gon’s teaching, if only he hadn’t been so eager to prove himself, to show that he was capable of taking what he’d learnt from Qui-Gon and turn it into something better, maybe he wouldn’t have failed those one thousand Twi’leks._

_“Of course it matters! It matters to the one thousand Twi’leks that died, it matters to me!”_

_Qui-Gon’s mouth snapped shut and he stared at him with an unreadable expression. The ensuing silence that stretched between them was so tense, he could have cut it with a simple metal blade. Obi-Wan flushed. He was being ridiculous. He was the one at fault here while Qui-Gon was only trying to help, yet he’d taken his anger and frustration at himself out on Qui-Gon like a petulant child._

_All of a sudden, Qui-Gon stood, taking with him his warmth and his comforting presence. Bant rose with him instantly, grabbing him lightly by the elbow._

_“Master Qui-Gon, are y—”_

_Qui-Gon smiled and patted her gently on the back. “It’s alright. I leave him in your care, Bant.” With that, he turned and left._

_Obi-Wan blinked and stared after the man, feeling terribly empty on the inside, not unlike that day year ago, four weeks from his thirteenth birthday when he’d watched as Qui-Gon walked away from him. The worst part was knowing that he didn’t have a right to feel upset, because he was the one who’d sent the other man away. He felt a sudden, insane urge to go running after him, to tell him he’s sorry, but all he did was sit and stare at the receding back until it disappeared from view completely._

 

* * *

 

There were so many things that Obi-Wan missed about working with Qui-Gon — the infinite wisdom he imparted at every opportunity, the sense of peace he radiated even in the tensest of situation, the way he always knew exactly what to say and do in dire situations… But if Obi-Wan had to name one thing that he missed the most about working with his former master, it was how they were always able to read each other’s minds without once stopping to compare notes even while under pressure. If only he could read Quinlan’s mind, he’d probably be a lot less confused and frustrated than he was right now.

Obi-Wan coughed up mouthfuls of brackish water as he was dragged out from where he’d accidentally stumbled into the patch of bog, head still spinning from aftereffects of the concussion and legs still wobbly from the stun shot from the blaster. It was fortunate that the datapad had taken the brunt of the hit, or he would definitely be in a much worse position than he was right then. Whether that was a result of careful calculation or a fluke, Obi-Wan wasn’t certain. In fact, he wasn’t actually certain if Quinlan was a Jedi pretending to be a bounty hunter or a bounty hunter pretending to be a Jedi. He supposed that level of acting must contribute to Quinlan’s stellar portfolio. He gasped, filling his lungs with stale air that reeked of bodily waste and decomposing bodies. Still, it was infinitely better than filling them with water contaminated with years worth of waste coming from the city. Obi-Wan was decidedly not in the business of drowning before he got a chance to get back to Coruscant and talk to Qui-Gon. It still irked him that he didn’t get a chance to read the message and most likely never will, unless Qui-Gon would care to let him read the message from his end. By that point, it would be moot anyway. Who needed to read messages sent weeks past when they’re meeting up face-to-face anyway?

“This the one you told me you wanted sold?” asked the Bothan dealer, eyeing Obi-Wan sceptically. “Looks like a wimp.”

Obi-Wan didn’t know who that was. When he had came to, bleary eyed and groggy with both hands tied to his back in stun cuffs and all of his weapons methodically stripped from him, the Bothan had already been on-board the starship. In fact, it was the experimental jab from the toe of his boots that had kick-started his brain, yanking it back into the realm of consciousness. For all Obi-Wan knew, this guy could be one of Quinlan’s contacts or a real slaver. Either way, he was unlikely to find out any time soon, in which case it was perhaps best to get into his fiery-tongued ex-bounty hunter turned slave persona.

“Who are you calling a wimp, you slimy, slithery, snaky son of a—”

The Bothan lifted his electrojabber the same time Quinlan raised his hand and casually delivered him a backhanded slap for his efforts, sending him sprawling. Fortunately, he didn’t fall into the water this time, though his shoulder did protest at having to take the brunt of the fall.

“Don’t worry. He’s a sturdy one, this one. Not too much brains to him, unfortunately. Fresh meat straight out of Coruscant, said he wanted to make a living as a bounty hunter and asked to team up with me. Hah! As if the great Szchiffa Cour needs a partner to slow him down and steal half his payment! Watch his tongue. Cut it out if you need to. I don’t care, as long as he gets sold and I get paid.”

Obi-Wan snapped his mouth shut at that and glared. He really wouldn’t put it past Quinlan to make good on his threats, espionage mission or no. Experience told him that one did not become a specialist in a particular field by doing things in half measures.

“Don’t tempt me to dig your eyes out, kiddo,” Quinlan drawled.

Obi-Wan spat. Quinlan marched forwards and grabbed him by the front of his collar, lifting him off the ground easily and pulling a fist back for a punch.

“Hey, not the face. That’ll bring the price down,” the Bothan interrupted. “If I’m getting one-tenth of the cut, it better damn well be a good cut.”

Quinlan and Obi-Wan’s eyes met. On the surface, scathing condescension was replied with burning animosity; deeper that, paragraphs of coded text were exchanged, conveying update about the sudden change in plan. Unfortunately, neither held the decoder for the other’s convoluted encryption.

“Try one more thing, and I swear I will kill you, credits be damned,” Quinlan hissed into his face and pushed him away. Obi-Wan stumbled but managed to keep his footing. Quinlan turned to the Bothan. “Get this thing out of my sight.”

“I’ll see what I can do, mate. Certainly not the auction rings — he’s not valuable enough, but maybe the display racks?”

“Do with him what you will. Just don’t try to cheat me of my credits. I will know, I promise. In the meantime, I have an appointment with Ziro,” said Quinlan. He turned around and gave Obi-Wan a mock salute. “Good luck staying alive with that attitude of yours, kid. Here’s a pro-tip: next life, try not to trust a bounty hunter so easily.”

Obi-Wan shot him a look of pure, unadulterated rage. At this point, it really didn’t take much acting on his part. Quinlan smirked and stalked away, replacing the Mandalorian helmet on his head as he went.

 

* * *

 

_Obi-Wan grimaced as he stepped out of the treatment room into the brightly lit corridor of the Healing Halls. After spending one day immersed in a bacta tank, his leg muscles had apparently forgotten what it meant to resist gravity and his knees were intent on buckling under him. He paused in front of the door, allowing time for his wobbly leg muscles to realise vacation time was over and they needed to get back to work._

_Not for the first time, he mentally kicked himself for being an absolute nerf-herder and deciding that it was a good idea to get in the way of seven warring tribes intent on negotiating with blaster fire. Really, his mandate only went as far as to ensure that the tribal leaders did not try to kill each other while sitting under the banner of truce. Once the negotiations turned sour and they decided that it was in their best interest to jump at each other’s throats, he really should have withdrawn and leave them to their centuries-old practise, barbaric as it seemed to him. Nevertheless, his foolishness had succeeded in getting them to agree to a ceasefire for the next ten years so it was probably worth it._

_Winna Di Yuni, the Jedi healer in charge of transferring him back to the medical facilities on Coruscant wasn’t in the least impressed and had made sure to let him know of that fact while she was lowering him into the bacta tank, at every given opportunity while he was lucid in the tank, and again when removing him from the tank. If he wasn’t gone by the time she exited the treatment room, Obi-Wan had no doubt the Jedi Healer would give him yet another round of nagging. Which meant he really should get going._

_“… were due for your checkup last week,” said Vokara’s voice coming at him from around the corner to his right._

Oh great. Here comes another Healer to nag at me.

_Obi-Wan turned left, ready to bolt._

_“You worry to much,” said a familiar baritone voice._

_Obi-Wan froze. He could recognise the voice of his former master anywhere._

_“I don’t. You just take your own health too lightly,” Vokara snapped, sounding terribly annoyed. “You and Obi-Wan both. Honestly, why Master Yoda thought it was a good idea for the two of you to be together, I don’t know. You just feed off the worst of each other. Boy’s just as reckless as you are.”_

_“I would prefer to call it enhancing each other’s unique set of talents,” Qui-Gon replied mildly._

_From the tone of his voice, Obi-Wan could already picture the expression on the man’s face — the twinkle of amusement in his clear blue eyes and the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips._

_Vokara snorted._

_From the sound of their footsteps, they were drawing closer. For a split second, Obi-Wan had a decision to make. He could do the right thing and turn around to meet his former master, or do the cowardly thing and run away before they realised he was there._

_“If it helps, I’d always wondered what made Yoda decide I should train Obi-Wan too. Surely it had to be a terrible mistake.”_

_The words slammed into his chest with all the momentum of a freighter train, knocking the breath out of him, leaving him stunned. Obi-Wan had always suspected that Qui-Gon had never truly wanted to train him, yet over the years, he had foolishly deluded himself time and again to believe otherwise, choosing to think that the bond he’d formed with his master was evidence that the Jedi Master had genuinely wanted to him as an apprentice._

_That made up his mind for him. He continued walking in the opposite direction, moving as fast as his jelly-like legs would take him, hoping to reach the intersection up ahead before either Vokara or Qui-Gon could realise he was there. As he moved, his ears picked up snatches of conversation between the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears._

_“…boy… weak in the Living Force… no one else… didn’t want… waste…”_

_Vokara’s reply was too soft for him to catch._

_Obi-Wan could tell from the disruption in the cadence of one set of footfalls the exact moment Qui-Gon rounded the corner and caught sight of him barely two steps away from a corridor leading to the right. Obi-Wan finished the last two steps as unhurriedly as he could and allowed himself to round the corner and disappear into the intersecting corridor, careful to keep his head bowed and his eyes downcast throughout, as if deep in thought._

_“…know?” asked Vokara._

_Qui-Gon’s reply was too soft to be heard._

_“… not my story to tell… need to do it yourself…” said Vokara._

_Well, at least Vokara wasn’t disclosing information about Obi-Wan to Qui-Gon so his former master won’t find out about his latest stupidity for a while yet._

_One day, Obi-Wan vowed to himself. One day, he would actually complete a mission perfectly and be able to proudly show Qui-Gon that he’d honoured his teachings. Maybe when that day comes, Qui-Gon would finally acknowledge that he was a worthy apprentice._

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan stood in the midst of a hundred other slaves chained to a viewing pole, doing his best not to react as potential buyers ran their eyes down the length of his naked body the way one would a piece of fruit in a fruits stand. Ostensibly, it was to ensure that the slave carried no weapon on their person and enabled interested buyers to examine their purchase. In truth, Obi-Wan suspected it served the double purpose of stripping away a slave’s pride, humiliating and degrading the slave’s sense of self-worth and honour. If this was how slaves were treated, it was no wonder Anakin had so much anger in him.

Obi-Wan felt like he owed the boy an apology.

A Dug leered the Gungan beside him and rounded her to inspect her from the back, reaching out to give her bottom a squeeze as he did. She let out a soft whimper.

“Hey, no touching the goods unless you’re buying them!” shouted the overseer, a Hutt that would have once looked huge to Obi-Wan but he now knew was really tiny for a Hutt.

The Dug scowled and let loose a string of swear words, but made no further attempt to molest the Gungan, ambling past on his strong forelegs. He leered at Obi-Wan as he passed, but move to inspect him. There was little need for human slaves on Nal Hutta. They weren’t as lithe as Twi’leks, strong as Besalisks or fast as Yoberrans. In fact, humans were widely regarded as jack of all trades, master of none. At the price point they were trying to sell him at, it would be a small miracle that anyone bothered with him at all unless it was to leer. Most of the other humans were roped up along the lowest tier to be sold as a group, not even deserving their own display stand.

Obi-Wan wasn’t a mind reader, but something told him Quinlan’s plan was for him to be bought by Ziro. Earlier, he’d seen a large envoy heading to the auction rings. The Hutt slavers had fallen over themselves trying to impress them, plying them with slave after slave. Considering that Ziro was the Hutt lord overseeing this particular patch of swamp, there was little doubt to Obi-Wan’s mind that they were his people. He frowned, mind racing, trying to figure out how to get their attention. At the rate he was going, he was pretty sure he would spend the rest of his life on display, never mind being purchased by Ziro.

A richly-dressed Pa’lowick ambled down the row, inspecting every being on display critically. A young Twi’lek dressed in rags trailed after her, looking small and timid.

“What do you think about this one, Ryer?” asked the Pa’lowick in a singsong voice, stopping in front of a Wookie.

The Wookie roared and strained against the chains, barring his teeth at her, promising to inflict all manner of bodily harm upon her person in Shriiwook.

“Never mind that.” With a look of haughty disdain, the Pa’lowick gathered her robes of shimmersilk around her and turned away, continuing down the display. She wrinkled her nose at the female Twi’lek and walked past Obi-Wan without sparing him a single glance.

“Milady, this one looks good,” said the Twi’lek suddenly, coming up to a stop before him.

Oh no. He better not get bought by some random crime lord.

The Pa’lowick turned and stared at him, wrinkling her delicate snout in disdain. Obi-Wan shot the her a glare, contemplating using a little Force persuasion to deter her. He quickly decided that it wasn’t worth the risk. She didn’t look like the weak-minded sort, and if his attempt failed, it would expose his status as a Jedi and compromise the mission.

“Humans? More trouble than they’re worth,” said the Pa’lowick in a shrill voice. She crossed her spindly arms and eyed him critically.

Perhaps all she needed was a little reinforcement about her opinion of him. He spat at the Pa’lowick and barred his teeth in a display of feral violence, straining against his chains.

The Pa’lowick wiped the sputum away with a silken handkerchief. Slowly a smile lit her face, wiping the condescending disdain away. “Oh, but yes, a most fine specimen. You have a good eye, Ryer.” She turned around and raised one hand to get the slaver’s attention. “How much does this sleemo cost?”

 

* * *

 

_Qui-Gon was a brave man. He could face down ten armies alone without breaking sweat and remain strong in the face of torture and death. Yet as Obi-Wan soon discovered, no one was completely without fear, and Qui-Gon’s was the Healing Halls and injections._

_“Seriously, master. It’s just an antibiotic shot. Surely that can’t be worse than losing an arm because of infection,” Obi-Wan reasoned._

_“I am a Jedi, Obi-Wan. You may find that a healing trance works much better than any medication will.”_

_Obi-Wan gave him an unimpressed look. “Should I get Master Tahl, then?”_

_Qui-Gon blanched._

_Obi-Wan gleefully added ‘Master Tahl’ to the tally of things his master feared._

_“Hadn’t you tried that coughing technique? It actually works.”_

_Qui-Gon sighed. “I know it works. I’ve also researched at least a dozen other ways that works. I just don’t like being jabbed with a hundred different chemicals that I know nothing about.”_

_“And blaster fire is better.”_

_“At least blaster fire can only kill you,” Qui-Gon deadpanned. “Injections, they are just as likely to kill you as save you. It worries me I don’t know which it will do.”_

_Obi-Wan was about to argue that he’d never known injections to kill when he remembered Jenna Zan Arbor and kept his mouth shut. Qui-Gon still had scars along his neck from when he was held captive by the mad scientist. Obi-Wan never found out the full story of what happened to Qui-Gon inside the containment chamber, but knew enough to know that he had blood drawn from him several times a day from a vein in his neck for the purpose of Jenna’s experiment._

_“Look, this one won’t kill you. I promise. Also, I will show you where the sweets are kept in the refractory.”_

_Qui-Gon frowned at him. “What makes you think I care about where the sweets are hidden?” There was a moment’s pause as the message properly sank in. He narrowed his eyes at his padawan. “And how did you find out?”_

_Obi-Wan shrugged. “Oh, I pick up stories from here and there.” He grinned. “I also happen to know of a Jedi Master who have a habit of sneaking food to homesick crechelings. If memory serves, the cookies are kept in the same place as the sweets.”_

_“I am not a child to be bribed with the promise of sweets,” Qui-Gon insisted, ever the stubborn man._

_Obi-Wan sighed. “Alright. I will also endeavour to stay awake during Jedi History classes and work harder to improve my grades.”_

_“Deal,” said Qui-Gon after a heartbeat, before Obi-Wan could change his mind and retract his offer._

_Master and apprentice looked at each other, both looking like they’d just been forced to swallow a sour citrus. The irony of the deal — both agreeing to doing something they didn’t like so that the other would agree to do something that was good for themselves — wasn’t lost on either of them._

 

* * *

 

First order of business was to inject him and the handful of other slaves the Pa’lowick had chosen with transmitters to ensure their obedience to their new master. It was actually annoying, because now, every time he tried to so much as spit, he received a sharp jolt of pain that coursed right down his spine. Next, they were given a set of rags to wear. The material irritated Obi-Wan’s skin in a way that suggested it had less to do with the coarseness of the material and more to do with the clothes’ previous owner's dubious skin hygiene. Obi-Wan tried not to think too hard about it as he was herded back to his new owner’s abode, focusing his energy instead on plotting escape. Soon, they came to a stop, and Obi-Wan found himself staring at the familiar-looking building — it was Ziro’s castle.

Somehow, through some random stroke of fate, he'd ended up being bought by Ziro. Obi-Wan was actually giddy with relief. The Pa’lowick left them at the entrance and went about her own way, leaving Ryer to show them around.

“Don’t think of running away. The last one who did got blasted into smithereens before he could move two inches past the door,” Ryer informed them softly, indicating to the dark patch that stained the wall and the floor with the ends of the electrojabber he held gingerly in his hands. Really, the kid looked terrified holding the thing. Obi-Wan hoped, for his sake, that no one actually tried to make a run for it because chances were, he probably wouldn’t even try to use it to stop his escaped charge. Not that it mattered in the end — the transmitter in their blood was more than enough to deter anyone from trying anything funny.

“I’ll show you to the slave quarters first. Then I’ll let you know what you have to do,” said Ryer. “Well, come along now.” He turned around and began to walk, entering the castle through a tiny side door. Obi-Wan did not miss the pair of assassin droids stationed at the door or the trapdoor above him to allow guards to attack whoever was foolish enough to try to sneak in through the slaves’ entrance.

The corridors of Ziro's castle were dark and dank, branching off in so many intersections that it was like trying to navigate a labyrinth. Still, Ryer walked with confidence, never once slowing down to consider if he took the right turning. On his part, Obi-Wan silently surveyed the area through which they’d passed, cataloging everything he’d seen away to be analysed later when he had the time. If he was to have any hopes at all of escaping, he needed to know every nook and cranny of the place.

As they travelled, the corridors became narrower and less well lit, the furnishings less opulent. They ran into other slaves along the way — harried-looking, emancipated beings that mostly kept their heads bowed and shoulders hunched, steering clear of establishing eye contact to avoid engaging in an unnecessary tussle.

After a while, Ryer stepped into a tiny room with no door. The stench of stale sweat and something else he couldn’t quite place assaulted Obi-Wan’s nostrils long before he was even close enough to peek inside. A single glowlamp hung in the centre of the ceiling, illuminating the sea of grimy beddings were spread all over the floor with nary a space to walk in between them.

“This is where we sleep,” said Ryer. “Or rather, this is where we are supposed to sleep. There’s no assigned bunk, so it’s a first come, first served basis. But if you managed to take a spot, you run the risk of being punched by someone else who would challenge you for the spot. If you would rather keep your head low and not attract attention to yourself, I’d advise you sleep outside in the corridors. Spots close to the glowlamps are the most sought-after because it’s less cold there.”

Chances were, those spots were fought over as well. No one said anything, so Obi-Wan held his tongue as well. Really, he just needed to stay out of trouble and not draw attention to himself. The first chance he got, he was going disable the transmitter with the Force and make himself scarce.

 

* * *

 

_Obi-Wan sat alone in the star map room, continuing to work on the cylinder that was to be the hilt of his lightsaber. It was frustrating — even after spending weeks going through the construction diagrams and holobooks, he couldn’t seem to get things right. It certainly didn’t help that they were only allowed to spend two hours a day at the workshop working on their lightsaber hilts. Every time Obi-Wan felt like he finally had a grasp on how things worked, time was up and they were ushered back to the creche to turn in for the night. The next day, Obi-Wan would struggle to regain the enlightenment he’d achieved the day before, only for the entire process to repeat itself. This time, he was going to stay up all night and work until he finished._

_He’d taken great care in choosing the time and venue for his little illegal excursion — he had chosen to sneak out on a Zhellday night, so that it was Benduday the next day and he could sleep in if he wanted to; and he’d opted to work in the star map room where it was permanently lit by holograms of thousands of planets revolving in space. It was bright enough for him to work without needing to turn on the lights and draw suspicion from anyone who happened to be passing-by outside and isolated enough that few people ever came here._

_Which was how he was still awake long past midnight, fiddling with the wiring that he was certain was the reason the weapon would not ignite. He was so focused on his work that he failed to notice the sound of someone else entering the room._

_“I won’t do that, if I were you. You run the risk of your lightsaber overcharging and bursting in your hands if you wire the capacitor like that,” said a deep voice above him._

_Obi-Wan jumped, dropping everything onto the floor with a loud clatter that reverberated through the vast expanse of empty space. He flinched._

_The Jedi Master dropped into a crouch beside him and picked the half-finished hilt that had rolled to a stop at his feet. The dim glow from the planets of the Anoat sector orbiting nearby cast an eerie blue glow on the man’s face, highlighting the distinct features of Master Qui-Gon Jinn. Not that Obi-Wan needed the visual confirmation. Even if he had been working in complete darkness, he would still be able to recognise the voice of Qui-Gon anywhere. It was hard to forget him._

_“But I can’t get it to ignite,” said Obi-Wan, scuttling closer. “Surely that must mean I’m not powering it right.”_

_Qui-Gon shifted, settling into a cross-legged sitting position, drawing his face out of the cyanotic blue into the crimson light of the Atravis Sector. This close, Obi-Wan saw that there were dark circles under his eyes, speaking of countless sleepless nights. There was a trace of sadness in the Jedi Master’s eyes when he turned the cylinder contemplatively around in his hands, staring yet not looking at it. The young Initiate kept his mouth shut, fighting against the urge to bombard the Jedi for advise on how to build a lightsaber. No doubt Qui-Gon was lost in another time and place, thinking about the padawan that he had lost. The last thing he needed right then was an over-eager Initiate pestering him._

_The experience was a strange one for Obi-Wan. To his mind, Jedi Masters weren’t wont to feel such intense emotions. He himself had attended quite a few Jedi funerals during his time in the Temple. They were always simple, quiet affairs, with everyone in attendance remaining solemn throughout the funeral. The moment they stepped out, it was pretty much business as usual. Only the Initiates and Padawans who had known the deceased in life lingered behind, trying and failing to hide their tears and sniffles behind the long, trailing sleeves of their cloaks._

_However foolish it was, Obi-Wan momentarily felt jealous of Qui-Gon’s former padawan. What wouldn’t he give to be the padawan of a Jedi Master who cared so deeply for his apprentice._

_“This is where the other problem is,” said Qui-Gon at length, returning the hilt into Obi-Wan’s hands, startling the boy. Obi-Wan hadn’t thought he was paying attention to his hilt at all. Qui-Gon drew a stylus from his utility belt and held it out parallel to the body of the hilt. “Do you see it?”_

_Obi-Wan squinted, uncertain where he was supposed to look._

_Qui-Gon tapped one finger close to blade emitter shroud. Obi-Wan squinted, trying but failing miserably to see what Qui-Gon saw. He panicked, fearing that he looked a fool._

_“Calm down. Don’t let your fears cloud your mind,” Qui-Gon urged. He waited patiently in silence through the full minute it took for Obi-Wan to see the flaw._

_“Oh.” The emitter matrix and focusing lens were placed at a slight angle to each other. No wonder he could never get the blade to ignite properly. Actually, now that he was looking, he realised that the magnetic stabilising loop wasn’t fitted properly either and the way the entire structure was held together wasn’t exactly the most stable. He frowned and eschewed the faulty hilt for the diagram of the sixteenth design he’d sketched out. He had been so certain of this one, too._

_Qui-Gon peered at the diagram in the low light, their heads almost touching._

_“You will throw your lightsaber’s balance off if you place your power cell so far down. Take it from one who knows,” Qui-Gon advised._

_Obi-Wan’s heart sank. This was disaster. At this rate, he’ll never get his lightsaber built. Qui-Gon’s eyes lifted from the diagram to Obi-Wan’s forlorn face._

_“Don’t worry. I had to cycle through about a hundred different constructions before I found one that suited me. I’m sure you’ll be able to find something you like.”_

_The idea of going through another eighty-four diagrams terrified more than reassured Obi-Wan._

_“How would I know what I like if I don’t even know what a lightsaber is supposed to feel like?” Obi-Wan mourned, plopping onto the floor beside Qui-Gon dejectedly._

_Qui-Gon hummed. “That is true. Here, give me your hands.”_

_He reached to his utility belt a second time. This time, he drew out his own lightsaber and casually dropped it into Obi-Wan’s hands. Obi-Wan’s eyes widened and he nearly dropped it, but managed to recover and hold on to it before it rolled out of his fingers. The lightsaber weighed significantly more than his hilt and seemed to radiate strength and authority despite also being similarly made of a metal alloy casing. He couldn’t quite place it, but the lightsaber seemed to carry a part of Qui-Gon’s essence._

_“There. Study it,” said Qui-Gon. He stretched out on the floor beside him and crossed his arms behind his head. “Wake me up when you’re done.”_

_Obi-Wan sat frozen to the spot, holding the Jedi Master’s lightsaber reverently in both hands. A lightsaber! A real lightsaber, powered by an actual kyber crystal from Ilum! He felt an urge to activate it, but dared not, for he felt it would be a breach in trust. Qui-Gon had lent it to him to study, not to play with. After a while, he finally managed to calm down enough to actually inspect the hilt. It was a simple, no-nonsense design, made for functionality than aesthetics. Obi-Wan turned the grip over in his hands, feeling the scalloped ridge press against his palm. It gave a better grip this way. Made it harder for the lightsaber to be knocked out of his hands. Carefully, Obi-Wan began sketching out a new design. Beside him, Qui-Gon’s breathing rose and fell evenly as he slept._

 

* * *

 

From Obi-Wan’s observation, there were two hundred slaves to the twenty bedrolls in the slaves’ quarters. However, fights did not actually break out nearly as frequently as what Ryer’s words had suggested, considering that the household Obi-Wan found himself in never slept — or rather, the slaves never slept. In theory, they could sleep whenever they finished their chores for the day; in practise, they were given so much to do that even with Obi-Wan’s Force-enhanced speed and strength, he was kept on his toes running about from dawn to dawn. His reward for finishing his chores on time was a bowl of watered-down broth that was his sustenance for the following day. Those who failed to complete the chores from the day before had to go hungry.

In spite of his Jedi training, Obi-Wan could feel his strength diminishing day by day, chipped away by the mounting fatigue and hunger. This level of treatment of slaves made no sense to Obi-Wan. With the CORSA actively monitoring the hyperlanes, sentient trafficking was getting harder, which in turn made procuring new slaves harder and more expensive than ever. No matter that slaves were regarded as property rather than sentients with free will, they were still a precious commodity and it made no sense trying to work them into ruins in the shortest amount of time possible. Not that Hutts made terribly a lot of sense, so Obi-Wan figured he really shouldn’t be surprised. Rather, he should focus his energy on locating the records and make himself scarce.

All things considered, it was actually strangely easy to search through the place. Security wasn’t particularly tight on the premises and it certainly helped that his job as part of the cleaning crew granted him access to places that was otherwise denied entrance and his status as a slave meant few people ever bothered to give him a second glance. By the end of his second month there, Obi-Wan was confident he had searched through every nook and cranny of the place, with the exception of the vault behind Ziro’s throne in the Grand Hall.

His opportunity came in the form of the Pa’lowick Sy Snootles’ birthday. There had been a great celebration for Ziro’s girlfriend and now everyone from ranging their esteemed host to the petite celebrant to the gaggle of obstreperous guests, guards and slaves were drunk and deeply asleep. In all due fairness, their lack of self-control in perusing the intoxicant was somewhat spurred on by a tiny nudge of persuasion from a Force-sensitive individual with vested interest in getting all of them out of commission temporarily.

Now, Obi-Wan made his way through the throng of slumbering bodies, bearing cleaning equipments on his person for the benefit of anyone who might wake up at an inopportune moment and catch a slave strolling about in his master’s Grand Hall without legitimate business.

When he got to Ziro’s place, he quietly placed the items on the floor and sneaked over Ziro’s massive body to get to the vault. Once there, he pressed his ears against the durasteel door of the vault and turned the dial slowly, using the Force to guide him. In his sleep-deprived and malnourished state, the Force was a slippery thing, threatening to escape through the cracks between his fingers. Obi-Wan fought through his physical limitations and struggled to maintain his hold. If only he had his lightsaber with him, he could just cut through this thing and be done with it in less than a minute.

Click. Click. Click click click. Click Click. Click. Click click. Click. Click click click click.

Just when Obi-Wan was about to give up, he felt something give and the door swung open on its hinges to reveal an interior overflowing with precious jewels and expensive cloth but not a single datapad or holobook in sight.

Obi-Wan tamped down on his frustration. If Ziro really had the rumoured records, it wasn’t here in his castle. He returned everything to their original position and closed and locked the door before creeping away.

As he tried to step over Ziro, the Hutt suddenly turned in his sleep and wrapped one arm around him, drawing him close and rubbing slime all over him. Obi-Wan froze.

“You want to go to sleep,” he said, drawing upon the Force. The Force trickled and slipped out of his fingers.

“Mmm… Sleep with Ziro, mama?” The stench that blasted out of his mouth when he spoke was enough to knock a human out. Fortunately, for a man half-dead with fatigue, it served to revive him, yanking him back into the realm of the living. Obi-Wan gagged, the heavy veil of sleepiness occluding his mental faculties temporarily torn away.

Ziro had spoken in ancient Huttese, a language which Obi-Wan fortunately knew. He had learnt it during his padawan years for no better reason than because Qui-Gon had insisted he did and could remember sulking upon being given the assignment all those years ago. Now, Obi-Wan added to the list of things to do when meeting his former master again thanking him for the endless list of inane things he’d forced him to do which had ended up being a real life-saver.

“Of course, son,” he rasped out, sending out a soothing pulse in the Force. He was rewarded by a slew of images flooding into his mind from Ziro — childhood memories flashing past his eyes like a stop motion animation. He was a child, looking adoringly up at his mother who was intent only on playing with a tiny bundle in her arms; he was older, being reprimanded while his little brother cried; his brother got his favourite toy for his birthday while he got an assignment to deal with thugs that had encroached upon their territory; he watched over the family’s smuggling trade while his brother went to pursue his interest in music.

“Did I make you proud, mama?”

If Obi-Wan wasn’t so absolutely terrified of Ziro waking up and catching him in the act of snooping around his castle, he might have actually felt sorry for him.

“Of course, Ziro. Tell me, where did you keep… it?” Obi-Wan drew on the Force, projecting an understanding of that which he wanted — a recording of all the crimes the Grand Hutt Council had carried out over the years.

Ziro turned over, pulling him closer, threatening to crush Obi-Wan with the weight of his massive body.

“I don’t have it here. It’s with papa.”

“Where’s papa?” asked Obi-Wan slowly, fighting to keep his voice even while being suffocated by an enormous purple slug with neon yellow tattoos.

Something about the question triggered an unpleasant memory in Ziro. He stirred, starting to come awake. Obi-Wan drew on the Force and allowed a calming wave to wash over him, lulling him back to sleep.

“He—”

Before Ziro could say anything else, the sirens around the castle went off, signalling the entry of an intruder. Ziro’s eyes flew opened in an instant.

 

* * *

 

_“Why do we need to learn how to use these crude weapons when we have lightsabers?” Obi-Wan griped as he gripped onto the hilt of the electrosword with both hands. They had attracted quite a gathering of onlookers in the salles with their prolonged sparring using non-lightsaber weapons._

_He heard Garen whisper, “Two seconds.” To which Quinlan replied, “Three.”_

_Reeft, newly returned from his mission from the Outer Rim with his master, Binn Ibes, said in a mournful tone, “I bet my dessert that he lasts four.”_

_“Seriously, guys?” Bant hissed. “Have more faith in Obi-Wan. Ten seconds.”_

_“Because, my very young padawan,” said Qui-Gon, ignoring the illegal betting taking place around them as he launched forwards with his own electrojabber with a flurry of attacks coming from all directions, “You may one day find yourself in a situation where you don’t have your lightsaber with you.” A parry to block the electrosword swinging at his head, a pirouette to come up behind Obi-Wan, a blow behind the knees to send him crashing. He disarmed Obi-Wan, powered down his own weapon and touched its tip against Obi-Wan’s throat within exactly ten seconds of launching._

_Around them, the male genders groaned while Bant patted them on their backs in mock consolation. Obi-Wan didn’t miss the wink Qui-Gon flashed Bant, telling the padawan that despite his apparent nonchalance, the Jedi Master was, in fact, paying attention to the ongoings of their surroundings._

_“Also, I would not wish a reiteration of what happened on Gala.”_

_During their mission to Gala, Prince Beju had challenged Obi-Wan to a duel using traditional swords. The unusual weight of the metal blades had thrown Obi-Wan’s balance, giving Beju the opening needed to injure Obi-Wan. However,_

_“I won the fight in the end using the Force anyway,” Obi-Wan countered._

_Qui-Gon stepped back and helped Obi-Wan up. “Yes, but the Force will be able to help you much more if you were a little more adept at it.”_

_“But this is so uncivilised, master!”_

_“I would rather have a barbarian by my side than a monument of a saint. Pick up your weapon. We’re not stopping until you can swing that thing without cutting your own head off.”_

_Obi-Wan sighed. “Yes, master.”_

 

* * *

 

The normal way to handle being chased by a hundred blaster-wielding droids was to either run or stand and fight and give it your all. Of course, when it came to the Jedi, things almost never got handled the usual way, so instead, Obi-Wan and Quinlan found themselves bickering while fighting back-to-back with a electrosword and a blaster rifle between them.

“What do you mean I ruined it?” Quinlan demanded as he blasted ten droids into oblivion with his blaster rifle. “I risked my ass coming in to save you only to find you cavorting with the enemy!”

“He was about to tell me where he kept it!” Obi-Wan retorted as he smashed a hole through the nearest window.

“How valiant of you to sacrifice your body for the cause!”

“I was not— Oh, why do I bother explaining anything to you? Jump!”

With that, the two leapt out of the window, going after the speeder that was trying to make its escape.

 

* * *

 

_“Don’t put your weight behind your words,” said Qui-Gon. “A mind trick properly executed should not be anything more than a very persuasive suggestion. You must go along with their train of thoughts, persuade them that doing what you want would be in their best interest.”_

_“I’m trying, master,” Obi-Wan gritted out, sweat beading on his forehead from sheer concentration._

_The loth cat snarled and swiped at him with its claws. Obi-Wan backed away and flinched, eyes closing on their own accord, waiting for the blow to strike. He opened his eyes a second later when nothing happened, to find the feral bundle of fur, teeth and claws resting contentedly in Qui-Gon’s arms. As he watched, the demon-spawn rubbed its face against Qui-Gon’s chest and purred._

_“You may find that a little calming exercise with the Force goes a long way to priming your victim to be more agreeable to your suggestions,” said Qui-Gon. “Having a friendly disposition generally helps, too.” He produced a little cutlet of fish from somewhere on his person and fed it to the loathsome creature._

_Obi-Wan gaped. In all their time together, Obi-Wan had to count himself lucky the handful of times when Qui-Gon remembered that he was a living, breathing child that needed food, and here the Jedi Master was handfeeding the nightmare that nearly turned his padawan into ribbons._

_“Surely you’re not jealous of a_ cat _, are you, Obi-Wan?” teased his master, alerting him to the fact that his less-than-perfect shielding had been compromised yet again. “And here I was thinking he would make a good addition to our home.”_

_Heaven forbid he had to fight with a loth cat for affection. It was bad enough as it was that he had to compete with the twenty-odd pots of weeds in their shared quarters._

_“Attachments are forbidden, master,” Obi-Wan muttered, sulking._

_Qui-Gon chuckled. “So it is, Obi-Wan. So it is. Anyway, I do believe our friend would much prefer to be reunited with her family. Here, why don’t you hold on to him while I go let the authorities know we have a lost pet in our hands?”_

_How his wise master knew such a thing as the gender of such pathetic lifeforms was beyond the comprehension of one befuddled Obi-Wan Kenobi, who was of the opinion that such things should be addressed with the gender-neutral ‘it’. Nevertheless, far be it for him to question his master, and on such trivial matters, no less._

A padawan must always obey his master.

_Obi-Wan chanted the mantra over and over again in his head as Qui-Gon unloaded the furball into his arms and headed off into the CorSec Office. The loth cat struggled against his hold, getting more and more disgruntled by the second. Remembering Qui-Gon’s advise, he tried to send a wave of calm to lull the cat back to sleep. It rewarded his efforts by coughing up a furball onto the centre of his chest. Obi-Wan cringed and held it away from his body, disgusted. The loth cat mewled and tried to get away, waving its clawed limbs about in the air._

_“Look, mum! That meanie’s holding Sweetpea!” cried a child, tugging at her mother’s sleeves._

_Obi-Wan shot a glance at the family headed his way. In his distraction, the furry creature unleashed its teeth upon his unsuspecting fingers. With a yelp and a start, Obi-Wan released his hold on the loth cat, which landed nimbly on its paws and immediately sprang towards the girl who was crouching down with both arms outstretched._

_“Sweetpea!” she cried happily, valiantly rubbing her defenceless face against the terrible feline’s face._

_“Thank you, Master Jedi,” said the father, bowing to Obi-Wan._

_“We aim only to serve,” said Obi-Wan, reciting what he heard his master said all the time. In truth, he was terribly grateful for their appearance. He wasn’t sure if he would survive another minute in that monster’s presence._

_Later that evening, Obi-Wan returned to their shared quarters from Jedi History class to find his favourite muja muffin sitting on the table. He felt mollified — that was, until he took note of the durasheet tucked beneath it._

_‘I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up. Do help me water the plants, Obi-Wan.’_

_Obi-Wan sighed and got about to tending to Qui-Gon’s beloved green associates._

 

* * *

 

Quinlan and Obi-Wan skidded to a halt before the yawning expanse of swamp, staring after the departing speeder that was fast becoming little more than a speck in the horizon.

“Where do you think he would have gone?” asked Obi-Wan, doubling over and panting.

“Huh. That seems to be in the direction of his mother’s house.”

“Do you know where it is?”

_“Of course.”_

Obi-Wan's sleep and glucose-deprived brain dredged through several terribly unoriginal ideas and presented them to its fatigued master. They could risk the very real possibility of drowning and trudge through the dismal marshlands with its wretched heat and irritating marsh flies, arrive at their destination royally late and be of absolute no help whatsoever, be it to themselves, their wanted criminal or the universe at last — or they could avail themselves of a speeder and be on their way. Presented with such odds, it really wasn't much of a choice. Quinlan may provide an alternative course of action, but at the rate they were going, Obi-Wan really wasn't keen on finding out what the other man had in mind. It irked Obi-Wan to admit that now that he was finally free to make his own calls about how to proceed with his missions, his methods left no doubts as to who his mentor was.

Two standard minutes later, they were in possession of the key to a speeder of particularly fine build the likes of which was rarely seen even on the opulent skylanes of Coruscant, their clothes still smelling faintly of the savoury fumes that permeated the cantina. A low rumble originating from an eminent member of Obi-Wan's guts informed him woefully that the delay could have been much longer if only its owner had an ounce of self-preservation. Obi-Wan ignored it, attesting to the truth of the accusation.

“That was a pretty show,” said Quinlan. “I would have threatened him for the keys.”

Obi-Wan was about to walk towards the passenger seat, then thought better about it and headed for the driver seat instead. He didn't like flying, but he didn't mind it. Suicide-style flying, though, he could do without.

“Threats won't work with these people,” Obi-Wan offerred.

“On the contrary, I rather think they understand the language of violence fairly well.”

It actually wasn’t hard to imagine Quinlan negotiating with the help of a couple of blank shots and some very real aggression. In which case, it was all the more reason not to leave the planning to Quinlan. He revved up the engines, made a cursory check to ensure everything was working, gave the braking mechanism a once over just to be doubly sure and leaned into the forward thruster.

True to its reputation as the latest flagship speeder straight out of Kuat shipyard, the speeder surged forward in a burst of roaring power, leaving behind a vapour cone in the tail of its wake. Obi-Wan's brain, too muddled to keep up with the speeder, got left behind together with what was the remnant of his sanity and common sense that survived his twelve years worth of apprenticeship to Qui-Gon. Quinlan gave a whoop of excitement as the driver operated on autopilot, pushing the speeder straight up to its limit.

The low, squat mangroves that stood like palisades of soldiers scattered throughout a battlefield blurred into a mist of blood-red. The speed tore at Obi-Wan's face, sending him spiralling back into the cocoon of memory of the last time he flew so recklessly. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of laser cannons firing, followed by the deafening explosion of deflection towers crumbling into ashes to the ground, punctuated by the sound of three children whooping with joy.

“If you fly any lower, I will be able to do a molecular scan of the topsoil. You're flying too low at this speed, padawan.”

The dry remark came out of nowhere, jerking Obi-Wan's consciousness back into the present. A warning sparked at the periphery of his consciousness like a bolt of lightning splitting through the sky and Obi-Wan banked hard to the left, narrowly avoiding the corpse of a fossilised mangrove and nearly throwing his passenger out of the vehicle. He shot an apologetic look at Quinlan, whose hands were attached to his seat with a death grip, eyes bulging.

“Do you have a suicide wish?” he screamed at Obi-Wan. Or at least, that’s what Obi-Wan thought he screamed. He couldn’t tell for sure, considering that half the words were swept away by the wind tearing past them.

If Quinlan Kriffing Vos thought he had a suicide wish, he had probably crossed the proverbial line so much, it was no longer visible. Obi-Wan pulled up on the brake. The mechanism proved to stand up to actual usage as well as it did the pre-flight check and skidded to an abrupt halt with a loud, ear-splitting screech. Even privy of his own brain’s plans as he was, Obi-Wan had to press hard on the steering wheel to prevent himself from being flung onto the dashboard. Caught completely unawares, Quinlan Vos was flung out of the dash straight into the marsh.

 

* * *

 

_Obi-Wan watched on jealously as his master thumped the stubby owner of the dingy café on the back with affection rather than push him away. It wasn’t fair. In all the time he’d known Qui-Gon, his master was an extremely reserved and private man, prone to long periods of silence. Yet here, he seemed comfortable to be hugged by a scoundrel and laughed openly, as if he had not a care in the world. It suddenly occurred to him that Qui-Gon was only ever reserved around him because he didn’t trust Obi-Wan enough to open up in front of him._

_It was only fair. After all, Qui-Gon had known Didi Oddo for decades. They’d only known each other for little more than a year._

_The amount of time one spent together, he would discover later, often had little to do with how closely they bonded. He watched from aboard the Naboo Royal Starship as Qui-Gon patted Anakin on the back and reassured him gently, encouraging him to learn by watching him._

_There was a bond between them, Obi-Wan knew. Not quite the same one that Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon shared, but a strong bond nonetheless. Jealousy was unbecoming of a Jedi, but Obi-Wan couldn’t help himself. He turned away, feeling hurt at being on the receiving end of his master’s cold shoulder on account of a boy he’d barely known for a week._

 

* * *

 

“Are you here to kill my boy?” asked the gargantuan Hutt towering over them in a booming voice. “You’re deluded if you think I will betray my son.”

“On the contrary, we would prefer he remain alive. Which can’t be said for some of the other beings pursuing him,” said Obi-Wan. Distantly, he remembered Ziro’s memories of being the neglected child, forced to grow up before his time to handle the family crime so that his little brother could enjoy being a child a little longer. Was this show of maternal concern an act?

The Hutt seemed to weigh his words, considering carefully.

“He’s headed for Teth. See to it that he returns home alive, and you may take my ship.”

“We’ll be on our way, then, Mama Hutt,” said Quinlan, giving her a salute and spinning about on his feet to leave.

Obi-Wan squinted at the Hutt. For all the atrocious crimes she had committed, for all that she never once showed Ziro affection, he actually believed that her concern for her firstborn son was real.

“Why do you care so much for him?” he asked despite himself. Beside him, Quinlan’s glare was threatening to burn holes through his head. Obi-Wan ignored him. “You only love your younger son, don’t you?”

“Oh, what a luxury it is, to be so young. Clearly, you know nothing of being a parent. Show me, dear boy, the parent who does not love their child,” said Mama Hutt. “Ziro was always the more independent child, so I gave him the freedom he deserved; Hiro, on the other hand, was a spoilt brat who can’t be trusted to do a single thing without getting it wrong, so I kept my eyes on him at all times. That does not mean I care for Ziro any less.”

Before Obi-Wan could form a coherent reply, Quinlan had dragged him out by the scruff of his neck.

“We have our own ship, Your Highness!” shouted Quinlan over his shoulder. “But thanks for the offer!”

 

* * *

 

The first time Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon came across a crime scene, it was on Coruscant for the informant Fligh’s murder. Qui-Gon had instructed Obi-Wan to remain behind while he inspected the corpse himself, a decision which Obi-Wan had been infinitely grateful for. Since then, they’d encountered an endless number of sentients brutally murdered in the vilest of manner, so seeing a Hutt dead from a blaster wound straight through his chest was hardly surprising.

“Sy is an agent working for Gardulla,” said Quinlan. “Well, actually, so is Szchiffa. We were both meant to steal the holo-diary back for her, though I always intended to be the one to recover it first so that I can hand it over to the Council instead.”

“Sy Snootles is your informant?” It actually made sense, in a way. Still, Obi-Wan recalled the shy Ryer calling out to Sy. Even after Obi-Wan had settled down in Ziro’s castle, the boy had always looked out for him, and Obi-Wan didn’t quite miss how he sometimes helped create a commotion to buy time for Obi-Wan to make his escape. He’d assumed, back then, that Ryer was Quinlan’s informant, because why else would the boy help him?

“How did you think I found out that Ziro’s buying new slaves that day? I also knew she would bring Ryer with her, and I knew also that Ryer would recognise you and proceed to do everything in his power to get her to buy you, so I threw you there. I hate to say this, Obi-Wan, but a person as prim and proper as you will never last two seconds pretending to be a bounty hunter.”

“You could have gave me a warning first.” Obi-Wan inspected the mummified Hutt corpse, taking note of the rectangular patch that was of a different colour from its surroundings. It wasn’t terribly big, not even the size of a holobook. A holo-diary, perhaps.”Wait. What did you mean, Ryer would recognise me?”

“Didn’t he tell you? He was one of the nine thousand you saved from the Equanimity.”

Obi-Wan swallowed. “Ah.”

_Focus on the task at hand, Obi-Wan. Don’t get distracted._

“The tracks are still fresh,” he said, turning his attention away. “I think if we moved fast, we will be able to reach her before she gets back to Gardulla.”

“Obi-Wan, wait.”

Obi-Wan turned in time to see something black and silver soaring towards him. He lifted his hand and his lightsaber landed squarely in his palm.

“Thought you’ll want that back.”

 

* * *

 

_“Don’t be stubborn, master. You’re barely recovered. You only just managed to get out of bed yesterday!” said Obi-Wan as they stepped into the turbolift that would bring them up to the pinnacle of the High Council Spire. “Tell the Council that you’re not ready for another assignment yet, or I will.”_

_“It is only a diplomatic mission, my young padawan. You worry too much. Besides, this is a delicate matter.”_

And Qui-Gon was the Jedi’s best diplomat.

_Obi-Wan crossed his arms and scowled, knowing full well that even if he’d tried to protest in place of his master, the High Council would not listen. The truth was, the Jedi Order was terribly short on man power, the handful of field Jedi they had thinly spread across the galaxy. Even if they had another Jedi more skilled in the arts of persuasion than Qui-Gon Jinn, it was unlikely that that other Jedi would be dispatched in Qui-Gon’s place. No. Chances were, that other Jedi would be sent to handle some other mission more likely to meet with physical violence while Qui-Gon was sent to handle the Chancellor’s bid for peaceful negotiation with the Trade Federation. If Obi-Wan tried to protest the mission, he would be left behind on Coruscant, and Obi-Wan would much rather be by his master’s side where he can keep an eye on the man and keep him safe._

_“Did Master Vokara even clear you for missions yet?” asked Obi-Wan, determined to employ a final line of defence before yielding._

_“Master Vokara cleared me for discharge from the Healing Halls. She never did take me off active duty.”_

_Which was more a sign of Vokara being so overwhelmed with work that she thought it unnecessary to state such an obvious fact than a proof of her support of Qui-Gon being sent off on another mission so soon._

_“Besides, something tells me I am needed on this mission,” said Qui-Gon._

_Obi-Wan groaned. “Not your instincts again, master. Last time it got us falling off a cliff!”_

_“Which we survived. If we had done it your way, we would have been trapped in the explosion in a cave. You still have much to learn, my young padawan,” interrupted Qui-Gon._

_That was, of course, true. Obi-Wan sighed. At this rate, he was going to die of old age before he was ready for his Trials._

_“Yes, master.”_

 

* * *

 

As soon as the starfighter was safely in hyperspace, Obi-Wan commed the Jedi Council. The comm was immediately redirected to the droid in charge of handling incoming comms while the Council was in session.

“JCD, inform the Council that we have managed to recover the holo-diary,” said Obi-Wan. “I will be transmitting the data over. Get a slicer team to work on the data as soon as possible.”

The droid beeped out a response in binary, sounding strangely despondent, as if it was offering its condolences rather than congratulations. Obi-Wan frowned, having never learnt binary. He glanced at Quinlan, who shrugged at him.

“What? I’m not a droid,” said the Kiffar.

With a sigh, Obi-Wan thanked the droid and plugged the holodiary into the transmitter.

It was strange, he thought. That droid usually such a cheerful little thing, too, beeping with joy even when he commed to report a failed mission. Qui-Gon had chided him for his narrow-minded view of the world frequently in his junior padawan years, telling him that the droid was not happy to see them fail, but delighted that they could return to Coruscant with their lives despite a botched mission.

He drummed his fingers along his thigh, chewing on a ration bar, trying to think. There was something niggling at him at the edge of his mind, though he wasn’t thinking straight enough to be able to discern the message. There was a ping to indicate that the transmission was finished. With a sigh, he disconnected the holo-diary and tossed it over to Quinlan, who caught it deftly without once taking his eyes off the ship’s consoles.

Obi-Wan curled up on the floor and went to sleep, too exhausted to lament the absence of a bed in the starfighter.

 

* * *

 

Everyone was staring at Obi-Wan as soon as he climbed out of the starfighter, making him feel terribly self-conscious. He was painfully aware of the unsightly state he had been in after his months of stay on Nal Hutta and had done his best to freshen up on the journey back, though from the way people were looking at him, he figured he’d probably failed royally. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a technician dressed in an orange unisuit race whisper something to another man, who raced out of the hangar. Something was amiss. Something beyond his bantha-like appearance.

Obi-Wan allowed his hand to fall to his side, close to where his lightsaber hung, poised for trouble.

“You go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the Temple shortly,” said Obi-Wan, waving Quinlan away.

The Kiffar nodded, picking up on his intent. “See you soon.” He ambled onwards while Obi-Wan made a turning and began heading towards the Temple District.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Obi-Wan saw a shadow slipping through the crowd, following him. He picked up speed, heading for the intersection ahead where Quinlan would be waiting to accost whoever it was that was shadowing him. Before he could reach it, however, something large collided into him, knocking him off his feet and pinning him to the ground. The assault came so quickly, Obi-Wan didn’t have time to register the klaxons sounding out the warning in the Force. The Besalisk towering over him pinned him down on the gravel and delivered a backhanded blow, sending his ears ringing.

“You damned brat. How dare you return now, calm as you please, ambling to the marketplace like you don’t give a womprat’s shebs about what happened?”

A million constellations blotted out his vision, but there was no mistaking the voice of an old friend — or rather, what Obi-Wan had thought to be an old friend. Clearly, said friend thought differently, if the backhand was anything to go by.

“Dexter?” Obi-Wan availed himself of the traditional practise of blinking to clear his vision. Not that it did any good. His vision did, however, restore itself and he found himself looking at the familiar face of Dexter Jettster, the Besalisk that had taken over Didi’s café to run a diner that offered food that tasted a lot more palatable, though just as likely to land one in a medical centre as the establishment it replaced. “Hold up a second. What are you talking about? Were you looking for me? What’s going on here?”

A small, round figure broke through the crowd and ran to Dexter’s side, tugging at his arm to get the gargantuan reptile to ease off the relatively petite human before the latter got crushed.

“Let the boy go, Dex,” said Didi. “I don’t think he knows.”

Dexter’s hands, which were pulled back to deliver another blow, halted in space.

“Know what?” Obi-Wan demanded. His eyes sought out Didi’s, who averted his puffy red-rimmed eyes to avoid meeting his. Dex was bristling with an uncharacteristic display of rage. Dimly, Obi-Wan recalled a lesson from Qui-Gon about the tendency of some beings to mask grief with anger. A quick sampling of the Force told Obi-Wan that a shroud of bereavement hung densely over the inhabitants of the Temple district, many of whom most certainly came from elsewhere on Coruscant, if their dress code was anything to go by. Slowly, the sense of dread that he had pushed to the deepest recesses of his consciousness bubbled to the surface. “Where’s Qui-Gon?” he asked, dreading the answer. It had been three years since they’d severed their bond. Three years since Obi-Wan last felt the calming presence of his master at that corner of his mind where the lone bollard stood, providing a stable mooring for the training bond they shared. Nevertheless, he had always felt a phantom hum thereabout whenever he was on the same planet as his former master, his subconsciousness picking up on the other’s Force presence easily from kliks away the way the seeing eye picks up light. Now, however, the bollard remained eerily silent.

“Go back to the Temple, boy,” said Dex gruffly. “Maybe you’ll be in time to send him off.”

Obi-Wan stared at the two numbly, the impossible words washing over his dazed ears. It was Quinlan who dragged him to his feet, Quinlan who led him towards the Temple while Obi-Wan followed in a haze, mind still trapped somewhere in the stage of denial, refusing to accept the truth.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan was no stranger to death. He’d been to countless funerals over the years, learnt the customs and ways of various species, and thought he knew how to handle himself as was appropriate in the face of grief. It wasn’t until that day, walking into the hushed silence of the hall, feeling the tumultuous waves of grief crashing into him in the Force, that he realised he truly knew nothing at all.

**_The more you know, Padawan, the less you know._ **

How many times had Qui-Gon told him that little snippet of wisdom in the past? Too many times to count, yet it seemed that Obi-Wan had never truly taken the message to heart, and now he would never hear it from him again.

He swallowed, fighting to keep his composure as was befitting a Jedi.

_“I’ll be leaving tomorrow. Will you be there?”_  
_“Definitely.”_

Obi-Wan had stood in the hangar, waiting until the pilot threatened to depart without him before boarding the ship, desolate in the knowledge that he would never be sent off.

_“We’ll talk once this whole thing’s over.”_  
_“I’ll wait for you to come back.”_

The Jedi within the hall parted before him, allowing him to proceed forward without challenge. Obi-Wan proceeded on autopilot, making his way to where he remembered the casket was traditionally placed before being lowered to be cremated. In its place, Master Yoda stood at accompanied by Anakin, bearing a simple, unadorned urn.

Before he could go any closer, Bant stepped forward, blocking his way.

“Was sending a reply so difficult?” she asked, her normally placid voice simmering with quiet rage.

Obi-Wan stared at her with incomprehension. “What?”

“Qui-Gon’s message. If you’ve read it, why couldn’t you have sent a reply?” Bant demanded. “A short one was all he needed. Did you know how long he spent staring over his datapad, waiting for a reply that never came? And you dare show your face now? Get out of my sight. You don’t deserve to be here.”

Obi-Wan blinked. “I never read it,” he whispered, his own voice sounding hollow in his ears. “I opened it, but I never got a chance to read it.”

“He’s telling the truth,” said Quinlan, stepping up from behind. “It was my fault. I shot him before he had a chance to read it. I am sorry.”

Apologies didn’t make things right. Master Windu had told Obi-Wan that when he was thirteen, after he returned from Melida/Daan and begged to be re-accepted into the Order.

“Oh yeah? Then what about the two long years before that? Anyone who cared enough to give a womprat’s ass about Master Jinn could tell that he was ill. Anyone who cared enough to ask knew that he was diagnosed with bloodburn and didn’t have long to live. You knew he was taken off active duty. Why didn’t you ever bother to ask why?”

Reeft stepped forward, tugging on Bant’s arm. “Bant, that’s enough.”

Bant yanked her arm free. “Like kark it’s enough!” she hissed. “I’m not interested in listening to all your bantha poodoo, Obi-Wan Kenobi. I never had the chance to be there by Master Tahl’s side when she died. You had the chance to be with Master Jinn, but you threw it all away. So how dare you—”

“Bant, that’s enough!” Reeft’s words rang in the otherwise silent hall, the echo lingering in the ceiling rafters before bleeding away.

Bant flushed and turned away, tears running down her face.

“Let him come,” said a small voice. Heads turned to see the speaker. Anakin looked a mess, his eyes bloodshot and swollen, his face stained with tear tracks. “Qui-Gon would have wanted him to be here.”

With that, Bant stepped back, refusing to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes. Obi-Wan allowed himself to be led by Anakin down the remaining distance to stand before Yoda.

“Your transmission, we have received. A great gift, you have given the galaxy, but at a great personal cost,” said Yoda softly, ears drooping sadly.

Obi-Wan swallowed hard and bit his lips, unable to think of a response. What should he say? Thank you? I’m sorry? No, he refused to say anything, because there was nothing good to be said. He simmered with newfound rage at having been kept in the dark to complete a mission anyone else could have handled just as well while his master died of an illness that apparently everyone except him knew about. Yet what Bant said had been the truth. Qui-Gon’s state of health wasn’t a secret to anyone who knew him. Obi-Wan himself had noticed it that day, before he left on the mission with Quinlan. He just chose not to comment about it, not to ask about it, not to care about it. In the end, he had no one to blame but himself.

The anger, he knew, was an irrational response to grief and had no place here, so Obi-Wan clamped his teeth harder over his lips to prevent himself from saying something foolish. The metallic tang that filled his mouth informed him that his teeth had broken skin and drawn blood. Obi-Wan reached out for the urn, a silent plea.

Yoda handed it over to him, eyes glittering with unshed tears.

“Time to grief, you must, but afterwards, remember to rise again, you must. When difficult times are, the Code one must adhere to.”

Obi-Wan hugged the urn to his chest and sank to the floor, unable to think, unable to react.

Dimly, he registered a Caamasi padawan sobbing to a side while Vokara stood over him and murmured consolations in his ears. He saw a group of children no more than three years old huddled at the back, sniffing. Even his childhood friends Bant and Reeft were crying, yet he sat there, eyes dry as bone, unable to react.

Why was he the only one who didn’t cry? Was it because he cared less than the others? Was it because he loved Qui-Gon less? Obi-Wan pressed his forehead against the cool surface of the urn, feeling terribly lost, like a shuttle adrift in wild space.

No one came forward to console him, which was just as well. Here, in this moment, it was just Qui-Gon and him, master and padawan, brought together by the will of the Force.

_My place is by your side, always._

 

* * *

 

“I am truly sorry, Knight Kenobi, but the datapad in question have been formated and redistributed to another. We are terribly low on provisions. Surely you must know that.”

Obi-Wan ran a hand through his hair. “Of course, Master Li. Thank you for your troubles.”

“You are most welcome. If you wish, perhaps you should pay a visit to Master Jinn’s old quarters. We have yet to clear it out for new occupancy. In fact, if you wished —”

“I will fill in the necessary paperwork for the transfer, Master Li.”

The elderly Graan smiled at him and handed him the application forms for room transfer.

Obi-Wan exited the Quarter Master’s office, navigating through the hallways on autopilot. It wasn’t until he was standing before a door, hand rising to open it that Obi-Wan realised that he had returned to Qui-Gon’s rooms. Slowly, he pressed his palm against the panel.

The door slid open easily and stale air drifted out, smelling strongly of herbs and chlorophyll, just as it always did whenever they returned from a long mission. There was a lingering presence of Qui-Gon’s Force Signature as well, though it was too vague to provide any comfort. Obi-Wan stepped in, staring at the familiar space, noting the empty spaces where pots of plants once grew. Vaguely, Obi-Wan recalled tending to twenty-seven pots of plants daily as a padawan. Now, only a single pot of succulent sat despondently on the windowsill. No doubt Qui-Gon had either gifted the plants away or replanted them in the gardens in anticipation of the day he would no longer be around to tend to them.

Obi-Wan picked up the last remaining plant and studied it. It had grown larger and the pot doubly so, but there was no mistaking it to be the gift Obi-Wan had given Qui-Gon on his fiftieth birthday.

 _“A century plant, to see you safely through the next half of a century,”_ Obi-Wan had said.

Master Tahl had laughed and advised him not to make it a habit of gifting Qui-Gon with more pathetic lifeforms or he would quite likely spend the next half a century dedicating his life to being a horticulturist. Those had been some of the best times in his life, spending his days between mission learning and playing with Qui-Gon and Tahl. He could remember those days as if it happened yesterday, and yet both of them were gone now, and only Obi-Wan was left to inhabit this place.

He pressed a finger against the soil, feeling it. As expected, it was dry up to his first knuckle. He moved from memory, retrieving a spray bottle and filling it with water from the sink. Carefully, he sprayed the leaves of the plant, damping the soil slightly before replacing the pot on the sill for the leaves to dry under the sun.

Task accomplished, he exited the place, unable to stand the oppressive silence. The familiarity of the place made Qui-Gon’s death all the harder to bear. If Obi-Wan allowed himself to relax even for a second, he would turn around expecting to hear Qui-Gon share a joke about his day, or look to the kitchen and see the steam rising off the boiling kettle, only to find that it was all merely in his imagination.

It hurt, thinking of all the time he could have spent here with Qui-Gon, and yet he had distanced himself. And for what? For some trifle concerns that seemed incredibly fatuous now in the light of things.

 

* * *

 

“They told me I would find you here,” said Anakin, breaking into his reverie.

Obi-Wan started and blinked, craning his neck to look at the boy. In the open space before them, the star systems continued their slow spiral, casting a rainbow array of hues upon the floor and the two occupants of the room. Anakin settled down beside Obi-Wan, hugging both knees to his chest.

“I heard that you’re joining AgriCorps next week,” said Obi-Wan.

Anakin nodded, though he didn’t look enthusiastic about it. Obi-Wan recalled being his age, being told that he was to be sent to Bandomeer to be a farmer. He had been terrified at the prospect of being sent off the place he’d called home all his life to be a farmer in a foreign place.

“Look, if you are willing, I can—”

“I don’t want to be anyone’s padawan, Obi-Wan. Clee, Binn, Adi and Yaddle all offered. I just wasn’t interested.”

Obi-Wan turned to look at the boy’s face, surprised at the revelation.

“Why?”

Anakin tugged at the hem of his tunic. “Because I asked Master Yoda if it ever happened that my mother was dying, would I be granted leave to return. He told me that I should learn to let go of attachments.”

“Ah.” Trust Master Yoda to give that sort of answer. That was true, of course, but what was also true was that if a Jedi so wished, he could just go anyway, regardless of if the Council sanctioned it or not. The Jedi weren’t jailers, and unless one did a gross violation of the Code, the Council weren’t likely to be dishing out punishments to every Jedi who acted on a selfish desire.

Yet even as he thought of this, he realised that it still wasn’t a perfect solution for someone who wanted to be close to someone else the way Anakin did. If he was away on a mission, he might miss the chance to send his mother off, just the way Obi-Wan missed it. Life tended to get a little unpredictable when you’re constantly off gallivanting from one star system to another. Not that remaining planet-bound was a fool-proof plan. Still, it had better odds than the life of a nomad.

Anakin scrunched his nose, apparently doing his own bit of thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the right way, but it’s not a way that I’m used to and I don’t like it. So I decided that maybe being a Jedi Knight just isn’t for me. I like fixing things, and the AgriCorps on Tatooine needs someone to help fix the machines that keep breaking down because of the sand, so I decided to go back. I’ll still be a Jedi, though, so that’s alright. I’ll still be using the Force to help people.”

Obi-Wan smiled. “That is true. But what is also true is that my offer stands. If you should ever change your mind, know that I will always be willing to take you as my padawan.” And it felt right too, the thought of Anakin being by his side. Then again, so did Anakin being happy living on the same planet as his mother.

Anakin grinned at him.

“So, why were you looking for me?”

The grin fled. Anakin reached to his belt and withdrew a lightsaber. Obi-Wan’s chest constricted at the sight of the familiar design.

“The proper order of things was to surrender this back to the Council, but Qui-Gon would want you to keep this, I think,” said Anakin. “The crystals, they crave company, you know. It’s not right, locking the lightsabers away in a display case in the salles.”

It was an odd way of describing the crystal’s attunement to the Force, though perhaps Anakin wasn’t intentionally being poetical but was rather voicing out what he actually felt in the Force, which Obi-Wan had to admit was starkly different from how everyone else perceived the Force.

Obi-Wan reached out and held the lightsaber. A memory flitted past his mind — Qui-Gon, casually dropping this very same lightsaber into his hands. No Jedi was ever willingly parted with his lightsaber, yet the Jedi Master had not hesitated about entrusting Obi-Wan with his. Was it trust, or recklessness stemming from depression? He recalled Qui-Gon’s peaceful slumber and figured it had to be the former.

“Anyway, I got to go now. Force theory class is in five minutes.”

“Then you better run,” Obi-Wan advised. From memory, it took ten minutes to get to the class, less if one ran with Force-enhanced speed.

Anakin waved and sprinted away.

Obi-Wan turned his attention back to the lightsaber, running his fingers over every ridge, remembering the feel of it in his hands. The ridges were more rounded out, worn with usage, and there were little scratches here and there. Obi-Wan’s thumb rested over the ignition and hesitated for a moment before powering it on.

An emerald beam flared into existence, humming lowly with energy and something different. Remembering Anakin’s words, he reached out to the kyber crystal in the Force, and immediately felt its Force energy enveloping him in a tight embrace, clinging on tightly. Obi-Wan allowed himself to be lost within the folds of the familiar Force Signature, overwhelmed with loneliness and grief.

Did the crystal respond this way to everyone? Was this what Anakin meant by the crystal not wanting to be alone?

Except it wasn’t. Kyber crystals, despite being Force-sensitive, weren’t sentients. Rather, they picked up imprints from their wielders and left a lingering presence of their wielder’s signature. Which meant that this sense of abandonment and desperate cry for companionship was a truncated redaction of what Qui-Gon had felt in the last few days of his life.

“Obi-Wan,” came the disconsolate susurration, the Force energy reaching out to him in desperation, recognising his Force Signature. “Obi-Wan.”

Did you know how long he spent staring over his datapad, waiting for a reply that never came?

Obi-Wan deactivated the lightsaber and hung his head.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” said Bant. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

They were sitting together on Lake Level, him, Bant and Garen, who had finally managed to get back from settling a dispute between two systems. Reeft had gone off on a mission to some Core World to oversee a Trade Agreement. Such was the life of a Jedi, the only certainty being that they were always drifting from one place to another.

“Don’t be,” said Obi-Wan. “You were right. I did have a chance. I just never took it.”

“You were at fault, that is true, but what is also true is that the fault is not yours alone. Any of us could have stepped in and intervened, but we didn’t.”

Obi-Wan shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m not angry with you.” He forced a smile at his friends. “I’ll be going to Hosnian Prime tomorrow. You want anything?”

Garen blinked. “They’re sending you off on missions already?”

Obi-Wan shrugged. “I don’t see why not. It’s not like I have anything to do here anyway.”

Bant and Garen exchanged glances but said nothing. That was fine with Obi-Wan. He didn’t need to endure another cycle of persuasion trying to convince him he wasn’t ready for missions. Kriff being ready. He was never ready for any of his missions over the past three years. There was no reason he should wait on account of being not ready now.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan stalked into the Healing Wing, holding a piece of durasheet in his hand. Ben took one look at his face and shot a panicked look at Vokara.

“Go and check on the drips, Ben,” said Vokara, shooing her padawan away from the imminent storm. The Caamasi darted away immediately, only too grateful to be excused.

“What’s this?” demanded Obi-Wan, slamming the durasheet on the table.

Vokara steepled her fingers in front of her face and regarded him calmly. “The truth.”

“I’m not unwell, Master Che. You can’t take me off active duty!”

“So says the man who charged straight into a battlefield and took out ten tanks and a battalion of droids on his own against the governor’s advise,” said Vokara. “Look, I know you want a distraction, but going on a mission isn’t it. When you’re on a mission, you’re expected to be able to think and respond as appropriate to help settle a dispute. If you’re distracted, you’ll only end up endangering the lives of others. I’m sorry if this sounds harsh, but it is the truth. Until I see a modicum of self-care in you, I will not clear you and that is final. The application form for an appointment with a Mind Healer is right here and the door out is that way. Your choice. Either way, you don’t get to stand here and terrorise me or my staff.”

Obi-Wan glared at her.

“Then I’ll wait it out. The Order doesn’t have enough people to afford wasting one.”

“That is exactly right, Obi-Wan. The Order is hard-pressed for field agents, which is why we can’t afford to send one who would take the value of his own life lightly out.”

“What do you want from me?” he hissed, barring perfectly straight incisors and canines.

“As you are now? Nothing. Go somewhere else to vent your anger, Knight Kenobi, and if you happen to meet Obi-Wan on your way, tell him I’d like to have a bit of time from him.”

“What for?”

“That is between me and Obi-Wan. Now, once again, forms are this way, door is that way.”

Obi-Wan clenched his fists and turned around, storming out. Vokara drummed her fingers along the lateral side of her arm, counting down in her mind. She’d been treating Obi-Wan since he was in the creche, and knew him well enough to know exactly what he was going to do next.

Ben reappeared at the counter. “Nothing’s amiss,” he reported.

“Really? Then go read up on the types of intravenous solutions we have. I expect a presentation on the usages of each one tomorrow.”

Ben hesitated, then darted away when the sliding door hissed open again. Obi-Wan walked up to the counter, inhaling deeply.

“I apologise, Master Che. That was unbecoming of me,” he said.

He wasn’t anywhere near the epitome of poise and self-composure he used to be, but Vokara believed in giving credit where credit was due. She signalled for a medical assistant to take over the counter while she led Obi-Wan to the tiny pantry which also doubled as a private space for debriefing aggrieved friends. It was empty at this time of the day, and Vokara set the lights to Do Not Disturb.

“When was the last time you ate?” asked Vokara, indicating Obi-Wan to take a seat. She opened a cabinet and rummaged through it for a bowl and a spoon.

The young Knight settled in a stool and linked his hands together before him on the table.

“This morning,” he said after a moment’s consideration.

“And when was the last time you ate a proper meal that was not ration bars or energy drink?”

This time, the silence told Vokara Obi-Wan wasn’t actually thinking of an answer but was actually too embarrassed to divulge the answer.

“Let me guess. Before you embarked on your mad quest to Nal Hutta with Quinlan Vos?” She ladled some porridge from a pot into the bowl.

Obi-Wan shrugged, then nodded. Vokara settled the bowl before him and sat down opposite him.

“Eat.”

Obi-Wan stared at the porridge, studying the way the steam drifted upwards in loose coils, looking like he didn’t have the stomach for it. Then, as always, when confronted with problems, he fell back on habit, which was to obey orders. He scooped the porridge and brought the contents of the spoons straight up into his mouth. Vokara leaned forwards and stopped him.

“Kriffing Force, Obi-Wan. Are you trying to burn yourself?” She sighed and pulled the bowl away. “Okay, let’s leave this to cool for a while. We’ll try something else, alright?” She got up and headed for the freezer, withdrawing two popsicles from within. She handed one to Obi-Wan and began sucking on the second herself. “You should try it. This used to be Qui-Gon’s favourite flavour.”

At the sound of his former master’s name, Obi-Wan tensed up, the lines of his body stiffening. He tightened his grip on the popsicle. Droplets of water had began to condense along its length, coalescing into larger drops to marathon to the bottom before dripping off onto the table. Vokara sucked on hers a little longer before speaking.

“If you don’t want it, give it back. You have no idea how much in demand it is, all because everyone around these part had somehow gone and associated this particular flavour with the peace that came with meditating with Qui-Gon. I’m sure Ben would appreciate it lots.”

Obi-Wan stared at the popsicle in his hand, then at the puddle on the table, blinking as if seeing both for the first time. Mechanically, he lifted it to his mouth and sucked on it. Immediately, he made a face.

“It’s bitter.” He continued to suck on it.

“Huh. You tell me.”

She watched as Obi-Wan finish the popsicle, then began working on the bowl of porridge.

“You wanted me for something,” said Obi-Wan. “It can’t be just to feed me.”

“No. But as a Healer, it is my job to make sure no one collapses from malnutrition and as a friend, it is my job to make sure you didn’t try to work yourself to an early grave.”

Obi-Wan arched an eyebrow at her, clearly not comprehending the last statement. Friend?

“I was from the same clan as Qui-Gon,” Vokara offered. “Why do you think we always scrap like a bunch of crechelings? We were crechelings together.”

Obi-Wan perused his muscles of deglutition to transfer the thoroughly masticated food from his mouth into his stomach, his thyroid notch ascending then descending with the action. Slowly, he exercised his mandibles, contemplating his next words.

“You have something to tell me,” said Obi-Wan. “Alright, I get it. You can tell me straight. No need to soften the blow. You want to tell me off for being an absolute moron, don’t you? Because apparently in the two years since Qui-Gon found out about his diagnosis, everyone remotely close to him knew that he was ill. Everyone except me, of course, because I was too busy being an idiot to notice.”

“In your defence, he was being too much of an idiot for you to know too.”

Obi-Wan’s responding eye roll could have made the perfect flat bread.

“It’s true. I’ve been telling him since forever to tell you, and he always says, tomorrow, next time, maybe later… I didn’t even know you weren’t aware until that day when we ran into you in the corridor — or rather, when you ran away from us.”

Obi-Wan sighed.

“I shouldn’t have, I know, but I just overheard him confessing to you that taking me on as his padawan was a mistake. I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I fled like the coward that I was.”

“He didn’t think his taking you on as a padawan was a mistake. He thought Yoda assigning you to him was.”

The look Obi-Wan gave Vokara told her she wasn’t making much sense. Vokara waved a hand.

“He wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry,” said Vokara.

Obi-Wan licked his lips and took a deep breath to collect himself before speaking, not trusting his voice not to crack otherwise. “Why?”

“For many things. For not waiting for you to come back. For being such an inept master. For—”

“He was never an inept master,” Obi-Wan interrupted.

Vokara fell silent and waited, allowing Obi-Wan time to gather his thoughts and speak his mind.

“Much rather, it was me,” said Obi-Wan, staring at his hands. “I’ve always wanted to make him proud of me, yet I could never seem to understand the Living Force the way he did. In the end, I guess I was only ever a disappointment.”

Vokara remained silent for a while longer, waiting to see if there was anything else that Obi-Wan wished to add. When he said nothing more, she leaned forward in her seat.

“Do you want to know what Qui-Gon told me that day at the corridor?”

Obi-Wan’s stormy-blue eyes lifted, looking at her.

“He told me that even though you always insisted that you were weak in the Living Force, you actually felt deeply and bonded easily with people — a trait of a quintessential practitioner of the Living Force, if there ever was one, and his biggest regret was that your talent for the Unifying Force was wasted under his tutelage. He wondered if Master Yoda assigned you to him simply so you could cure him of his stubbornness, which ended up helping him but hurting you. That was the reason why he thought it was a mistake, not because you disappointed him.”

Obi-Wan took a deep, shuddering breath. “He couldn’t possibly have thought that. He’s the only master I have ever wanted.”

“Well, then that makes both of you. Whatever your self-deprecating tendencies want you to believe, know that you will always be his greatest pride and joy. Never doubt that. Don’t blame yourself for not coming back in time, alright? Qui-Gon himself didn’t want you to compromise your mission and return on account of him.”

Seconds crept past, sneaking along its way on silent steps. A drop of tear fell from Obi-Wan’s eyes, followed closely behind by another. He sniffed, fighting back tears, yet they continued to fall, leaking out from the top of the overflowing dam.

Vokara went over to his side and held him, allowing him to cry his heart out.

“There, there. It’s alright. There is no death, there is the Force, remember? Everything will be alright.”

It would take time, Vokara knew, and until then, all they could do was provide him with the support he needed to forgive himself and recover.

 

* * *

 

_Qui-Gon stood waiting outside the classroom as the padawans filed out, chattering excitedly as they exchanged plans for how to spend the remainder of their Zhellday evening. Most of them were of an age where they were allowed to leave Temple grounds without supervision, and few hesitated to avail themselves on the freedom whenever occasion allowed it. He caught sight of his padawan at the back of the group, his ginger head locked with that of Garen Muln. Bant lingered a ways behind, wisely keeping her distance, lest she overhear some shenanigan that she would be obligated to report._

_Obi-Wan and Garen’s chatter trailed off as soon as both caught sight of him._

_“Master?” There was a dash of uncertainty mixed with a smattering of fear in Obi-Wan’s timbre, alerting Qui-Gon to the fact that yes, his padawan was most certainly up to no good._

_Beside Obi-Wan, Garen gave a deep bow. “Master Jinn.” Bant bounded forwards with great enthusiasm and gave him an affectionate hug. “Master Qui-Gon!” Qui-Gon laughed and returned the hug. He didn’t miss the spike of jealousy coming from his padawan but ignored it. No doubt Obi-Wan knew that the emotion was misplaced and would work on it. Sure enough, Qui-Gon soon felt a rustle in the Force as the young man released his negativity into the Force._

_“It’s good to see you too, Bant. Padawan Muln. Would you mind if I stole my padawan away for the evening?”_

_Bant, Garen and Obi-Wan exchanged glances._

_“But I promised Garen I would be going out with him,” Obi-Wan protested. “You promised me the evening off yesterday.”_

_It wasn’t often that Obi-Wan went against his order, which made Qui-Gon feel badly about insisting, yet he knew he must in the interest of maintaining peace on Coruscant._

_“That, I did. I am, however, privy of the trend these days of indulging in one’s first drink of alcohol on one’s eighteenth birthday with the hopes of getting drunk. Knowing full well that your young friends are woefully not of legal age yet, I went the trouble of procuring a bottle of fine liquor in the interest of not having you miss out.” He held out a bottle before the young man. “Port in a Storm from Pamarthe. Strongest liquor you’ll ever find throughout the known space.”_

_He paused as he allowed Obi-Wan to process the message. Grey-blue eyes darted between the bottle and Qui-Gon’s bright blue eyes, clearly torn._

_“But master, I had other plans in mind.”_

_Knowing his padawan and his dissident friend, folly would perhaps be the best description of said plans. Qui-Gon, for all his maverick tendencies, was not desirous of receiving a summons from CorSec in the wee hours of the morning informing him of a misconduct from his young charge and his underage friends. Still, Obi-Wan was never one to respond well to head-on confrontation. It was always better to appeal to his sensibilities instead. And if doing that involved making him feel guilty of being disloyal, it was a necessary evil._

_Qui-Gon folded his hands into his sleeves and put on a show of being disappointed. “In that case, do enjoy your evening out,” he said, infusing a drop of disappointment in his tone._

_Obi-Wan, ever the paragon of an obedient padawan, caved in favour of humouring his master, much to Garen’s adeptly concealed disappointment and Bant’s open relief._

_“So… How did you come by this… bottle?” asked Obi-Wan tentatively as they made their way back to their shared residence._

_“It was a gift from the governor of Pamarthe himself several years ago for helping negotiate a fair price for the construction of a planet-wide hanging bridge system,” said Qui-Gon. “He assured me that this was a watered down version, safe for off-worlder consumption.”_

_Obi-Wan’s look of interest fled instantly upon hearing that it was a watered down version, teenage swagger leading him to believe that he could handle the original without ill, just as many non-Pamarthens arrogantly believed until they found their innards blown apart by a liquid supernova._

_Qui-Gon pressed a hand to the panel beside the door to their residence and the door slid open with a soft hiss. The padawan trailed after his master and hovered in front of the couch, eyeing the durasteel bucket placed beside the low table dubiously._

_“I promise you if you find this fine specimen wanting, I will bring you out and buy you all the liquor you shall ever want for the remaining tenure of your apprenticeship,” Qui-Gon offered, dangling a bait in front of Obi-Wan that he knew the young man can’t help but bite._

_Obi-Wan’s eyes glinted with excitement. He settled down on the couch beside his master and angled his body so that he was half-facing Qui-Gon. “Deal.”_

_If only the padawan had paid closer attention, he would have noticed the glint of mischief in his master’s eyes as the Jedi Master poured out two fingers of liquor into two shot glasses._

_“Happy birthday, Obi-Wan,” said Qui-Gon, lifting the shot glass in a toast._

_Obi-Wan lifted his own. The glasses clinked and both men threw their heads back, downing the liquid in a single gulp. Qui-Gon survived by virtue of having sampled genuine, vintage Port in a Storm before and had braced himself both mentally and physically for the repercussion of swallowing a sun. If he had drawn on the Force a little to assist him with doing the impossible, who was to blame him? Obi-Wan, on the other hand, had no such luck, and Qui-Gon watched as a deep vermillion hue shot up his face from his chest, his eyes bulging wide a fraction of a second before he started coughing._

_“Surely this can’t be made for human consumption!” Obi-Wan sputtered when he had finally caught his breath, his voice hoarse._

_“On the contrary, I would say that this is the brethren designed for human consumption,” said Qui-Gon evenly. He wasn’t entirely unaffected, but it was easier, with experience, to put on a serene facade._

_Obi-Wan looked like he regretted ever wanting to taste alcohol._

_“I humbly beg to differ, master. I would willingly spend the rest of my life in abstinence from alcohol than sample another drop of that acid water.”_

_“Very well, then, padawan. Still, this is your birthday gift. Surely you don’t intend to put it to waste?”_

_Obi-Wan thought about it for a moment. “What say you, master my, if we indulge in a game of Truth or Drink?”_

_“It must be the generation gap, because I swear I recall it being a game of Truth or Dare,” Qui-Gon remarked dryly._

_“Let’s be honest. If you dared me to do something that would break the Jedi Code, I would be stuck with either forfeiting the challenge or accepting it and being brought before the Council for disciplinary action. Either way, it would be incredibly puerile, so I suggest we play a game of Truth or Drink.”_

_Qui-Gon smiled. “So be it. You may take the lead.”_

_Obi-Wan sat forward instantly, sickness momentarily forgotten in the face of excitement. “What was the worst offence you’d ever committed?”_

_That was actually surprisingly easy._

_“Rejecting you,” said Qui-Gon simply._

_Obi-Wan blinked owlishly, mouth hanging agape at his august master, torn between feeling mollified at being held in such a high regard by his master and cheated at having learnt nothing scandalous about the Jedi Master._

_“Well, seems like it’s my turn now,” said Qui-Gon. “Do enlighten me, my young padawan, what is it that you and your friend Garen Muln had actually planned for tonight?”_

_Obi-Wan’s mouth clamped shut immediately. His eyes darted to the bottle with a look of great trepidation, looking torn between self-preservation and not betraying his friend. Qui-Gon had no doubt as to which of the two Obi-Wan would choose, though the boy looked like he hadn’t yet arrived at his master’s conclusion._

_“Fine,” Obi-Wan gritted out. He poured a shot of the liquid, held his breath, and downed it. This time, he gagged and nearly threw up._

_Qui-Gon took pity on the boy and presented him with food and a generous serving of cheese._

_“Lesson number one when drinking alcohol, padawan. Never drink on an empty stomach. Eat something high in fat if possible. It slows the absorption of alcohol.”_

_“Does it prevent the mucosa lining from corrosion?” Obi-Wan croaked plaintively._

_“Hmm… Good question. I don’t actually know. Why don’t we test it out? Your turn.”_

_This time, Obi-Wan took some time to think, no doubt taking great care to formulate a question that Qui-Gon would be unable to work his way out of easily. He munched on a fried Endorian chicken wing, the cogwheels of his mind turning. Master and padawan communed in the rhythmic chewing that accompanied the consumption of dinner._

_“What do you like about Master Tahl?” he asked at length._

_Qui-Gon’s eyebrows rose. “Are you sure that is what you really want to ask? Sounds like a fairly easy question to me.”_

_“Not that easy, if you’re trying to divert my attention and make me change it,” Obi-Wan pointed out, licking his fingers clean._

_That was actually a spot-on observation, and one that Qui-Gon hadn’t actually realised he was doing until his padawan so astutely called him out._

_In all due fairness, it wasn’t exactly something that he’d rather not talk about either, but still, looking at his clearly inebriated padawan, Qui-Gon felt an urge to even the playing field, which was why he poured out a shot and downed it. When he replaced the shot glass on the table, he found Obi-Wan staring at him with an inscrutable expression. He looked almost… sad._

_“Do you miss her?” he asked._

_Strictly speaking, Obi-Wan’s one question was up, but Qui-Gon saw no reason to evade the question. “Yes.”_

_Obi-Wan said nothing, staring at the bottle of wine in silence, sadness trickling through their bond. Qui-Gon mulled over this for a moment before pushing it aside to be analysed later._

_“What happened that night on Yavin IV that led to the local security detaining you?” asked Qui-Gon. He knew the answer to that, of course, yet Obi-Wan wasn’t yet privy enough to law enforcement at that time to realise that there was no way the local security would allow his master to bail him out without first apprising the former of the latter’s misconduct that had resulted in the arrest in the first place and had, on a rare show of defiance, refused outright to speak of it no matter how much Qui-Gon tried to press the matter._

_It seemed like four years had not quite dulled whatever misgivings Obi-Wan felt about his perceived misconduct, for the young man immediately reached for the bottle and poured himself a shot. Qui-Gon caught his wrist, halting the process of the glass’s ascent to his lips._

_“Come now. Surely it can’t be that bad that you refuse to tell me even now?”_

_Obi-Wan averted his eyes and released his hand from Qui-Gon’s loose grip._

_“I’m sorry, master.” He downed the drink._

_For several long seconds, the ensuing silence was charged with awkward tension. Qui-Gon regarded his young charge, feeling both befuddled and hurt that Obi-Wan should feel that there was anything at all that he could not speak plainly to his master about. Then, Obi-Wan lurched forward._

_Anticipating what was about to transpire, Qui-Gon stretched out a hand, summoning the bucket into his hand and depositing it in front of Obi-Wan’s face as the boy threw up into the bucket. He reached out and held the padawan braid out of harm’s way._

_Once Obi-Wan was reduced into a dry-heaving mess, Qui-Gon headed off to the kitchen to prepare a pot of jeru tea._

_“Lesson number two, do try to stay hydrated.”_

_When he got back, his padawan was leaning back against the armrest of the couch, staring up at the ceiling, the corners of his eyes wet. He accepted the tea without comment and sipped at the hot beverage, seemingly lost in thought._

_Despite himself, Qui-Gon was starting to get worried. What was it that people also said about getting drunk? That in some people, it amplified the depression one felt? Was Obi-Wan secretly depressed about one thing or another?_

_“Obi-Wan?”_

_“What do I have to do to make you proud of me?” Obi-Wan asked suddenly._

_The adage about hard liquor loosening tongues had to have some truth to it, because Qui-Gon suddenly found himself to be in a maudlin mood and entirely too ready to divest his innermost feelings._

_“Nothing, Obi-Wan. I am already tremendously proud of you. You are the best padawan anyone can ever wish for, and there’s nothing you can ever do to diminish my opinion of you.”_

_A soft snoring informed Qui-Gon of the fact that his padawan had, in fact, been knocked out cold by the drink and didn’t hear a word of his heartfelt confession. He snorted. It was perhaps for the best, or he would never hear the end of it. Standing, he scooped his padawan up and carried him back into his bed, helping remove his boots and utility belt while he was at it — just so he didn’t dirty the bedsheets and not because Qui-Gon enjoyed the rare opportunity to dote on his padawan, Qui-Gon reassured himself._

_He leaned forward and kissed him softly on the forehead. “I love you, Obi-Wan. Happy birthday.”_


	8. Author's Note

The rest of the following is just my thoughts about the trajectory of how the story would ultimately end in this AU. I’m not actually writing this entire monster because I already have 2 other WIP that are most likely never going to get completed at the rate I’m going so I really didn’t want to launch into a third one but didn’t want to leave readers hanging either. I wrote this out just for the benefit of curious readers like me who absolutely need closure about what happens to the characters after the end of a story. (If anyone wants to borrow from this plot, feel free)

A note of warning: It’s not all rainbows and unicorns so expect some amount of deaths coming up. Also, no matter how bad my grammar and writing is in the chapters 1-7, that, at least, had received a semblance of proofreading. I’m not proofreading this mess so expect tons of grammatical mistakes and typos.

 

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**What Happened After:**

As mentioned in the fic, Anakin joins the AgriCorps on Tatooine and has a chance to meet up with his mother and stepfather. When he's 19, he receives a distress call from Cliegg telling him Shmi'd been captured by the Tusken Raiders. He chases after them, finds his mother, doesn't annihilate the Tusken Raiders because bringing Shmi home for medical attention is his main priority, but she dies several days later from injuries. _(I should probably explain here that I HC Anakin killing the Tusken Raiders as an impulsive act fuelled by anger and grief of the moment rather than a calm, calculated act so in this AU, since the Tusken Raiders aren't around and he’s around people that he knows loves and cares for Shmi telling him to stop, he doesn't go hunting them down and killing all of the younglings either)_ Depressed, he leaps at the first AgriCorps mission off-planet — to study local flora on another desert planet which happens to be — you guessed it — Geonosis. He runs into Obi-Wan again there and gets caught up in the whole mumbo jumbo of the Clone Wars.

Dooku still becomes Darth Tyrannus in this AU _(because his goal was, is and always will be to make the Jedi realise the error of their ways. If anything, I think his animosity for Obi-Wan here is actually even greater O_O)_

Anakin quits AgriCorps, thereby quitting the Jedi Order altogether at 19 years old _(around the same time when TCW!Anakin gets knighted)_ , joins the military, and because Fate won't have it any other way, somehow ends up working closely with Obi-Wan. Ahsoka is Obi-Wan's padawan in this AU, and she ends up being bros with Anakin _(lmao can you imagine the kitchen raids they do together)_. Sad news: she still gets kicked out of the Jedi Order for the same reasons. Happy news: she teams up with Anakin for a short while after that before getting sent to Mandalore with Rex before the events of ROTS. Anyway, at some point early in the Clone Wars, Anakin ran into Senator Padmé, they dated and after going through several near-death experiences together, ends up getting married. Legally and publicly. Padmé gets pregnant pretty much around the same time as in canon.

Back to Palpatine. Before Anakin departs for the AgriCorps, Palpatine offered him a place in politics on Coruscant, but Anakin firmly refused, declaring he had enough of dreaming about doing great things and just wanted to go home. Shmi's death was really secretly orchestrated by Palpatine to get Anakin back into the game. When Anakin's back on Coruscant, he meets up with Anakin again, and tries to use Padmé's death to lure him to the dark side. Except at this point, Anakin had pretty much gone through N deaths in the war and all _(remember he's not a Jedi here so he considered the clones his brothers very literally and every clone's death mattered to him much more than it did TCW!Anakin. Besides, "reviving the dead? Do you mean that zombie-like creepy shit we encountered on Geonosis? Nuh-uh sign me out")_ and instead reacts by bringing Padmé to medical attention. Still, he's actually really tempted and Palpatine knows this, and keeps trying, pushing him slowly over the brink. Anyway, shit happens, Padmé unwittingly uncovers Palpatine's secret during one of his coms with his Separatists lackeys and got injured running away. She manages to send a transmission to the Jedi Council. Mace brings team to confront Palpatine and runs into Palpatine in the midst of feeding Anakin a story about the Jedi hurting Padmé. Mace tries to kill Palpatine, thereby confirming Palpatine's allegations that the Jedi are evil. Anakin intervenes and Mace’s attempt fails and is killed instead. Anakin agrees to help Palpatine. Order 66 is executed.

Meanwhile, Padmé is saved by Bail Organa, who also finds Yoda and Obi-Wan. The two Jedi returns to the Temple to deactivate the signal and runs into a very confused Anakin who can't decide what's going on. He was commanded by Palpatine to kill all the Jedi younglings, but he can't bring himself to believe it's the right thing to do even though the Jedi are traitors, plus seeing the chips activated in the clones a.k.a. his brothers freaked the heck out of him and anyway, he trusts Obi-Wan _(Obi-Wan wasn’t a Council Member here and was the one who stood by Ahsoka 100% throughout the Trial)_.

Eh. So Yoda confronts Sidious to buy time for Obi-Wan, Anakin and the surviving Jedi younglings to escape to Polis Massa. Anakin meets up with Padmé, who goes into labour and delivers twins but ultimately dies due to her injuries. Anakin realises that if he doesn't return to Palpatine, Palpatine will turn his attention to the next strongest Force Users a.k.a. his children. So they came up with an elaborate act:

Obi-Wan and Yoda take the twins away, Anakin returns to Darth Sidious, pretends that he was betrayed by the Jedi who killed Padmé and his unborn children and swears full allegiance to Darth Sidious if he helps him find Yoda and Obi-Wan and exact revenge. Meanwhile, the goal is to get close enough to Sidious to get his guard down and kill him. He does get maimed at some point and ends up in that horrendous suit, which was really an elaborate staged act by Palpatine and Anakin knows this but has no choice but to play along anyway. _(It was always Sidious’ goal to get Anakin maimed according to EU lore iirc)_

In this AU, Darth Vader is still feared and hated by everyone in the galaxy _(poor Anakin T_T)_ and he does kill a lot of ppl because otherwise Sidious won’t believe the act. However, he isn’t quite as bloodthirsty as canon!Vader and a lot more Jedi survives as a result. The Rebels doesn’t realise this, but most of the time they managed to escape from the Empire at all is because Anakin subtly made it so that the stormtroopers are a second too late in arriving or one ammo short. He knew about the flaw in the Death Star from the first day he saw the blueprints _(Anakin’s a pro mechanic himself, remember? More so in this AU since he spent a good six years building large-scale machines)_ but deliberately keeps quiet about it, and deliberately allows Galen to have a chance to contact the rebels much earlier before the Death Star is completed. He secretly allows the rebels to escape with the plans later.

Back to Tatooine. Owen Lars is 100% more open to the idea of Obi-Wan training Luke because he never saw Anakin's scary side and all he knew of the Jedi were ‘those kind people who helped the freed slaves find jobs and cultivated our lands’. Luke knows since he was a kid that his father was once a Jedi but left to join the military. He was trained to use the Force but thinks they’re just random cool tricks old man Ben picked up along the way working closely with his father and doesn’t actually know that Ben is General Kenobi or that he’s pretty advanced even for a Jedi. He doesn’t know about Darth Vader or the crazy three-way act Yoda-Obi-Wan-Anakin are doing. For that matter, neither do the one thousand other surviving Jedi scattered through the galaxy. Leia’s storyline is pretty much the same and she becomes a Senator at 15.

The timeline of A New Hope is brought forwards but the plot remains largely the same. When Luke’s 16, R2-D2 and C-3PO arrives, Obi-Wan and Luke go off to save Leia. Anakin still tortures Leia _(he wasn’t anywhere near as brutal as canon!Vader but Leia wouldn’t know that)_. Major difference: The construction of the Death Star isn’t finished so Alderaan wasn’t destroyed. Sidious was on board Vader’s ship and for the final act to prove Vader’s loyalty to Sidious, Anakin kills Obi-Wan. The rest is the same — Luke brings the Death Star plans to the Rebellion, they blow up the Death Star etc.

Stuff happens and Luke and the Rebellion run into the Empire again. It Sidious, not Vader, is the one to reveal to Luke his true parentage and tries to pit Luke against Anakin. Luke gains the upper hand but is unwilling to deal the killing blow. Sidious blasts Luke with electricity, Anakin uses the distraction to kill Sidious. Anakin doesn’t die immediately in this AU. He gets tried at court for war crimes, and Yoda reemerges from the swamps to tell the truth, which is backed by Bail Organa (can you imagine Leia’s horror omg). Anakin is still found guilty of murdering millions of innocents and is sentenced to imprisonment… on Alderaan. _(Meh. Ya think Bail is going to actually throw his old friend into a cold cell? Hahahaha.)_ Anyhow, Anakin has a chance to be reconciled with his twins before he dies. _(Seriously, Chapters 3 & 4 and this entire lengthy footnote exist only so I can give Anakin a happy ending)_

The five hundred surviving Jedi regroup and rebuild a New Jedi Order. Yoda lived to see the inauguration of the New Jedi Order but dies shortly after. Luke later finds the first Jedi Temple on Ahch-To and builds a new Temple there.

 

_I should perhaps mention at this point, that I’m not a fan of the pervasive fandom believe that a “Qui-Gon lives” AU automatically wins us a “Anakin doesn’t fall to the dark side”. I am a huge fan of Qui-Gon and I’ll be the first one to defend him when it comes to rabid fans bashing him for not freeing all the slaves on Tatooine etc. But I think that ultimately, the reason Anakin fall is because of Palpatine’s manipulation. Really, it doesn’t matter if it’s Qui-Gon or Obi-Wan or Yoda or Yaddle or Mace Windu that becomes his master and it doesn’t matter if the Jedi Council are all saints. In the end, as long as Palpatine is there, Anakin WILL fall. This AU, though, I call dips on creative license lmao._

 

* * *

 

**Random trivia**

regarding stuff that wasn’t mentioned or simply didn’t make the cut:

(1) Qui-Gon was the one who sent the tobal lens to Shmi that was instrumental in helping free Shmi in this AU (really, it happened in SW Legends and anyone who read The Life and Legend of Obi-Wan Kenobi would probably have picked up on it the moment the tobal lens got mentioned. This is the ONLY point which is semi-canon. The rest are all purely AU stuff)

(2) Qui-Gon was the one who sabotaged that dissenting Senator’s ship with an unwitting Anakin’s help just so it broke down in Hutt space where they will be captured by pirates and end up getting sold into slavery. I actually had a whole scene written out where Qui-Gon had to stand before the Council, who spoke in some obscure terms alluding to “taking you off duty from the Senate doesn’t mean you get the right to go around sabotaging Senators” and Qui-Gon being somewhat guilty that so many people got embroiled in the mess but not really because ultimately no one got killed and everything turned out for the better. It didn’t make the cut because I didn’t know where to insert it into the fic and anyhow it just started leading the story further off-track and wasn’t at all necessary for the intended plot.

(3)Ryer Stord/Equanimity actually has a pretty long story that didn’t make the cut. So here’s the deal:   
The Twi’leks on the ship? They were descendants of a group of Twi’leks that had been abducted from Ryloth decades ago and brought to a desolate moon in a dying system for some sort of scientific investigation. The experiment was soon uncovered and the facilities were closed down, but that left ten thousand mutated Twi’leks on a barren moon in a system where the sun was about to explode any time. Obi-Wan got all of them aboard a ship, the Equanimity, and transported them to the nearest star system, where they were forced to remain in orbit in space while Obi-Wan negotiated terms for resettlement. Unfortunately, the engines broke down before an agreement could be reached and the ship crashed into the ocean of said planet. All of a sudden, Obi-Wan had two options: To lie to the local navy that the Twi’leks had been granted landing permit and mobilise the entire navy to help evacuation, or tell the truth and appeal to their better nature to help out of altruism. Being Mr Stickler For Rules, Obi-Wan chose the second option. In the end, only half of the navy helped, and as mentioned in chapter 7, one thousand out of the ten thousand ended up drowning, which devastated Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan, of course, really isn’t as wimpy as his self-deprecating ass leads us to believe because in actuality, he proceeded to capitalise on this to garner media attention, stirring up an intergalactic uproar. Within days, a committee was formed and an agreement was reached to resettle the Twi’leks on a few planets and they were to be granted full citizenship. This last bit was a particularly important point so that the Twi’leks would not be subject to abuse and forced into slavery. Ryer was one of the resettled Twi’leks.  
Sy Snootles and Szchiffa Cour were employed by Gardulla to recover Ziro’s holo-diary, so in a sense, Quinlan was working with Sy. Sy, however, did not know about Obi-Wan. Quinlan had tossed Obi-Wan into the slave market when he realised that Sy was bringing Ryer along to purchase new slaves, knowing that Ryer would instantly recognise Obi-Wan and get him out.  
Anways! None of this was supposed to actually appear chronologically in the fic. Rather, it was all condensed in a few rather lengthy conversation between Ryer and Obi-Wan Kenobi while in Ziro’s castle where Obi-Wan kind of go “Why are you so nice to me?” and Ryer’s response was to look at Obi-Wan in the eye, then at the spot on his hip where he normally carries his lightsaber, which then spirals into a cryptic conversation where Ryer asks if Obi-Wan was there to free the slaves and Obi-Wan was pretty much ‘lmao I don’t even know how to free my own sorry ass but that’s kind of the long-term plan, yes’. Later, in another conversation, Ryer would finally go “Oh, I don’t expect you to remember but I was one of the nine thousand on Equanimity.” Which horrifies Obi-Wan because he’d thought he managed to spare them a life of being sold into slavery. Turns out that the rest of the Twi’leks are doing fine — it’s just Ryer. His little brother, Walker, fell ill and their mother needed money to treat him, so she’d sold him for money. The conversation ends up spiralling into Ryer lamenting about how he feels like the neglected child in the family, how he’s always the dull boy while Walker’s the smart one, yada yada, and how their mother immediately gave him up as soon as Walker was in trouble, which reflects Obi-Wan’s sentiments about the dynamics between Qui-Gon, Anakin and himself.  
After that final sequence on Teth, Obi-Wan was supposed to head back to Ziro’s castle to free Ryer. He runs into Ryer’s mother along the way and brings her along, except that the entire castle was already burnt down when they got there and all of the slaves died. Ryer’s mother is devastated, though hungry and sleep-deprived Obi-Wan was rather cynical and remarks that she shouldn’t have sold him in the first place. Apparently, she sold Ryer to a passing group of pirates, on the condition that she would ransom him back in three months and they were not to sell him off before then. Of course, these are pirates. The captain lost Ryer in a bet to a slaver within the first month, and after a long, convoluted journey that involved Szchiffa acting as middle man somewhere along the way (which is how Quinlan knew about Ryer’s background), Ryer ended up on Nal Hutta with Ziro. Ryer’s mother had been hunting the entire galaxy for her son since then. It would then end up with a confession of how she had always appeared to care less for Ryer because he was always the independent kid whereas Walker was the one who always gave her problems and hence needed her to keep a close eye on. In truth, she loved both of them just the same. That was supposed to spark a realisation in Obi-Wan that Qui-Gon actually did love him, and he would rush home from there. Cue the rest of the Coruscant storyline unfolding.  
That conversation with Mama Hutt was really a watered down version that I wrote in place of this entire sprawling mess that was already taking up more than 4k words even before I got to the section with Ryer’s mother, and I decided it was really kind of a heartbreaking mess to write because I wanted Obi-Wan to arrive on Coruscant the day after Qui-Gon died, which meant, logistically, if Obi-Wan didn’t get caught up in Ryer’s mother’s sob story, he would have managed to return in time, so I finally thought, “nuh-uh” and cut it all out. So if Ryer seemed like this strange kid that appeared out of the blue sounding like he’s about to get some grand character development but ended up going nowhere, that’s why. He WAS supposed to get a development. It just ended up being cut out x.x

(4) In the first draft of chapter 7, the datapad wasn’t actually destroyed completely. Rather, it ended up on Tatooine in the hands of the Jawas. Cue a very curious group of critters ogling over the stream of messages Bant and Garen and Force knows who else kept sending Obi-Wan but they absolutely have NO CLUE what the messages are talking about (in From A Certain Point of View, it was mentioned that Jawas don’t understand Galactic Standard Basic, which is the language our heroes speak). This left us a very disgruntled group of Jedi thinking that Obi-Wan was somehow not responding to comm calls and not replying to read messages. This got cut out because I thought it was too sad to be really funny, yet too wacky to be truly poignant. And if Bant seemed like she was over-reacting in Chapter 7, this is why. Imagine sending a hundred WhatsApp message to a friend telling him that his dad is dying so can he please come home and he never replies even though he always reads the messages. So. Kriffing. Frustrating. Then she needed to turn around and pretend to be this dumb blond who couldn’t take a hint and help contact Obi-Wan in front of Qui-Gon because asdfjk how do you tell this poor man that yes, your son is reading all of my texts but no, he’s still not replying. Wow much?

(5) There was actually one scene of Quinlan doing some swashbuckling haggling with Ziro. Took up a shit ton of space without leading the story anywhere so it got removed lol

(6) In case you got curious what 14 year old Obi-Wan did to get himself detained, he was actually assigned to go to a bar to gather information, but ended up running into someone who recognised Qui-Gon and the other person immediately began throwing insults at Qui-Gon. Well, baby Obi-Wan is really a massive spitfire so they ended up in a massive fisticuff. Obi-Wan never confided the truth to Qui-Gon because he felt badly that he had once again let his anger get the better of him and was afraid Qui-Gon would be disappointed in him. In truth, Qui-Gon knew what had happened from the get-go and Obi-Wan’s silence only made matters worse because it caused Qui-Gon to think that Obi-Wan’s silence meant that he didn’t trust him. This was NEVER meant to be explicitly mentioned in the fic. I’m just adding it here for you curious souls who want to know

(7) Force ghosts don’t exist in this AU because really, in a world where Force Ghost!Obi-Wan wasn’t necessary to guide Luke to ultimately lead Vader to bring balance to the Force, I highly doubt the Force will orchestrate events so as to bring back that knowledge. So no, Qui-Gon never got back to Anakin about what happened after death. I’d like to imagine them having a massive reunion party in the afterlife, though, where Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan finally got things sorted out and the entire lineage is happily reunited. You have no idea how much I fought with the tagging system in the relationship section because the system was probably confused why I tagged A&B, B&C, A&C but absolutely refused to take its suggestion of A&B&C. That's because our fated trio never got to actually sit down all thee together in the entire story x.x

 

Anyway, if you've survived this long, THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading! 


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